A Small Change
by Aelfay Sparrow
Summary: John meets an intriguing new neighbor and slowly begins to unravel the mystery that is Sherlock Holmes. A bit slow to start, sorry. Spoilers for pretty much the whole series before Series 3. John W and Sherlock H - ish, AU. This story is dedicated to my friend Rachel, who encouraged me to think about the concept behind it. (Fem!Lock)
1. Welcome to 221 B

**Welcome To 221B**

Author's Notes:

f I get any questions about it I will start to go into the reasonings behind this fic, but for now it's strictly for my own pleasure and I won't go into that here.

Enjoy if you wish!

* * *

John limped up the stairs, trying not to grunt with the effort. The woman in front of him turned around, hands fluttering about kindly.

"Oh, take your time, dear! There's no rush, honestly..." It was sweetly meant, and John took it how it was meant, trying not to focus on how long it was taking him to climb the bloody stairs. Eventually they made it to the hallway above, and the woman - Mrs... Hudson? Hanson? Something like that - led him down and to the right.

"Now, these apartments are a bit smaller, you know," she said, talking quickly, with a warning tone of voice. She didn't want him getting his hopes up too high, he could tell.

"Well, I'm only one person, and I don't take up too much space," he said, forcing a smile when she looked at him, before she turned around to continue leading him down the hall.

"Of course, it all depends on Sherlock. There's no point in having anyone Sherlock doesn't like try to take a flat, I should know, I finally gave up on the idea," she continued. John's leg was giving him a dull ache that spread up to his hip. He gritted his teeth against the pain and limped faster. "...it was ridiculous of course - just a tantrum - but I can't throw Sherlock out, you know, it would just be..." Mrs. Hudson was still rambling. "...Anyway, it might work out with you, and your situation and all." She looked at him kindly.

John really wasn't paying attention at all by this point, but he managed another smile and a quick nod, and then they turned a right corner and were facing a white door with no lettering on it but "220 B". Mrs. Hudson knocked quickly. "Sherlock? I brought up the new one."

For a moment, John considered taking offense at being called "the new one," then realized that as he was the new one, it really wasn't worth it. The door swung open just a crack to reveal two bright silver eyes which raked him up and down like an x-ray, taking him in with a quick glance before a voice quickly said "He'll do."

The door closed in their faces, and Mrs. Hudson looked at him gratefully. "Oh good. Well, Sherlock won't bother you, and that's a relief. Let me show you the flat and then you can decide if you really want to take it."

John nodded, and raised an eyebrow behind her back as she led him further down the hall, as if nothing strange had happened at all. John, on the other hand, felt that normally people did more than simply look at you if they were going to decide whether they liked you or not.

They took another right and John started to make a quick scan of the layout in his head, just so he wouldn't be stuck trying to find his own flat - should he take it - which he would. It was the only one he could afford. God bless Mike for mentioning it to him, even if it had been with a roll of the eyes and meant sarcastically.

They were on the second floor of a large building - hence the "B" part of his address - but as the building architect seemed to have been interested in Mayan temples or something of the sort, the bottom level was much larger than the top, giving those on the upper level only room for two flats, back to back. It was a strange way to lay out a college dorm, but it hardly mattered. These dorms were rarely used by students. Mrs. Hudson was considered the resident supervisor and manager, but that didn't mean much considering that most of the boarders were professors or doctors of some sort and didn't really need much looking after. John suspected there would be quite a bit of fussing after him within the next couple of days, simply because she didn't have anyone else to fuss over.

The hallway had split at the top of the stairs, so he supposed if they'd taken a right instead of a left at the top, they could have taken the short way to his door, since the halls seemed to just make a square round the whole second floor. He hoped the rooms had skylights or something, otherwise he was going to find his rooms depressingly dark. As it was he supposed they would find out, because they were stopped in front of another white door, this one labeled "221 B".

Mrs. Hudson flipped on the light, and John limped in, taking a sweeping glance of the place. "I did take a bit of time to clean it," she said quickly, "But I didn't take out the furniture since I thought I'd ask if you wanted it. If you don't like it I'll just have some of the fellows up and - "

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," John interrupted her before she could continue. "I don't have much, it'll be nice to have something to sit on."

"Oh. Well, then, I'm glad about that. You just take a rest and look through the place then. I'll be right back up with biscuits." She left the room, and John noted that he'd been right. Lots of fussing.

Most of the furnishings were old, the type of heavy solid wooden furniture that had been far more common in the Victorian era. John guessed that perhaps Mrs. Hudson hadn't moved it all out because it was too heavy for her and she didn't want to bother any of the doddering men downstairs. Oh, well. It suited him. Strong and stuck in one place. He muttered and hit his leg with his cane.

He noticed a door open to his right and entered it to find a small kitchen and laundry room. A closet door was to one side - he tried it. It was locked, so he made a note to ask Mrs. Hudson for the key and limped back.

The main room had a fireplace, and several skylights, for which he was grateful. The skylights would add light, but lose heat, which would be remedied by the fireplace.

He moved into the bedroom, which was small, but decent, and had a large four-poster Victorian bed in the corner. He supposed for its time it was incredibly posh and ornate, but now it just kind of looked sad in the corner. Comfy, though, if one added lots of pillows.

A large wooden wardrobe was against the wall as well, far bigger than his clothes could ever fill, and there was another closet door, which was locked again. He rolled his eyes, limped back into the sitting room, and immediately made use of it by sinking down into the worn leather sofa, looking around and imagining his medal box hung above the mantel. Mrs. Hudson bustled in with some biscuits. "What do you think, dear?" she asked, setting the tin down on the coffee table and putting down a mug of tea that he hadn't asked for.

John nodded. "It'll work."


	2. Extra Doors

**Extra Doors**

So... not much of Sherlock in the last chapter, sorry. I have a major deviation from the BBC Sherlock, but I don't want to make it too easy to guess. It's been done several times, but I'd like to give it my own little twist.

I've realized as I've written more that this is quite AU, but I like it that way so I'm fine with it. Hope you are too.

Enjoy.

* * *

It took a couple of days before John moved into the flat, and longer for him to start unpacking, because there was no real need to pull out the only two pots you really owned when Mrs. Hudson was constantly coming up the stairs with food. John noted that he'd have to watch his waistline if she didn't stop soon.

It wasn't till the second day of unpacking that John began to wonder if he could get the keys to the locked closets. He didn't particularly need to use them, it was just that he'd limped past them several times during the day and was starting to wonder what they looked like. Not that it would be at all interesting - it was a silly sort of thought - he'd probably look inside, decide it was boring, and then wonder why he'd bothered to ask for the keys in the first place, but all the same it was nagging in the back of his head.

So when Mrs. Hudson came up with a marvellous bowl of chocolate pudding and some jaffa cakes, he brought it up. "Are there keys to those closets? You know, the ones in the kitchen and bedroom?" Mrs. Hudson turned red in the face and opened her mouth to speak, but he was already shaking his head. "It's no problem, I don't need them, don't worry about it." He'd seen the widened eyes when he asked and had suddenly decided he didn't want to know what was in the closets.

But Mrs. Hudson grinned sheepishly and said, "Oh, no, it's not that, dear, it's just - well, this used to be a hotel once, you see, and these two flats were the suites, apparently, so they've got doors in case someone decided they wanted both at once. Or I suppose that was the idea - now we just keep the doors locked so it's back to two flats. But I don't want you to think that your privacy's in danger, I mean..." John chuckled.

"No, it's fine. Don't worry about it." He dug into his chocolate pudding and Mrs. Hudson looked satisfied.


	3. Cops and Robbers

**Cops and Robbers**

Sherlock is in this chapter, I promise.

The last chapter was a bit short, so I thought I'd upload this one today as well. I haven't really got an upload schedule in my head - it's just kind of as I finish and edit the chapter - maybe I'll do something about that in future.

The first two chapters are always easy - set up the main idea, introduce the setting, etc - this has been the first real challenge as I have to make my characters actually _do_ something.

Warning: this chapter does deal with suicidal tendencies, PTSD and depression - John is just back from a war, you know.

Read and enjoy! I got my first review yesterday - thank you for the lovely comment! It definitely encourages me to continue.

* * *

Despite Mrs. Hudson's horror stories - which John had mostly tuned out for - Sherlock Holmes did not seem to be such an awful neighbor. In fact, John could hardly tell he had a neighbor. Which was rather boring and dull, but so was the rest of John's life.

He got up. He didn't bother eating because there was nothing to eat for. He didn't have friends, there was no need to go out, and his army pension meant that he had no real need to look for a job yet. He mostly spent his time limping around the flat - back and forth across the carpet of the sitting room. He had to see a psychologist once a week - orders left over from the army, to ward off the PTSD. She suggested a blog. So instead of limping he spent a couple of hours each day staring at a blank computer screen, with the cursor blinking reproachfully at him.

He'd get mad at the attitude of the tiny blinking line and get up and pace again. He supposed he should probably get a job at the Uni Hospital - after all, that's what he had been thinking when he'd looked for a flat close by - but couldn't find the motivation. He'd find himself looking off the building's balcony, wondering how long it took an object of his weight to fall.

Luckily Mrs. Hudson always seemed to arrive at the right times, and even with her constant flitting about he found himself looking forward to her visits. He supposed he should thank her for keeping him alive - the food she brought up was all that he seemed to eat these days.

One night he couldn't sleep. He just wasn't tired. He had no reason to be tired. Pacing around a small room in a flat simply wasn't enough to exhaust muscles that had learned their limits in Afghanistan. So he got up and restarted his pacing, until he happened to glance up and notice the stars through a skylight, and decided to go out onto the balcony again.

He'd stared at the stars and watched the city lights and was starting to count how many cars decided to drive by when a flicker of action in the alley nearby caught his attention. Someone was lurking, watching the door to the dorms he was in. A taxi pulled up and stopped in front of the building, but no one got in or out. John pursed his lips, looked at the lurker in the dark, and went inside to fetch his gun.

It was just instinct, he told himself later, though Sherlock told him it was _observation_, and one of the few he got right. But at the time, he hadn't thought much of it, just that he wanted to do _something_ other than sit in his flat and not fall asleep, and taking on a perhaps-mugger seemed like a good way to do it. Sherlock told him he could think like that because he was lucky. Maybe that was true.

He grabbed his pistol and limped down the stairs as fast as he could, shoving the gun into the back of his pants so it would be covered by his jacket and hopefully not too obvious to any stranger lurking about, but still in easy reach. At the main entrance he took a deep breath and then went out to knock on the taxi door. "Hello? Just wanted to ask if everything was okay. You've been sitting here a while."

To his surprise the taxi opened and a woman got out, somehow managing to be graceful despite her long coat. She took his arm forcefully and started guiding him back to the doors, quickly talking. "Thank you for your concern, we appreciate it greatly, now if you wouldn't mind walking us up to our flat. You're ever so kind." The words, while quickly spoken, did seem to come with the right facial expressions - but John was no stranger to flirting and could tell that they were slightly forced.

He wondered why she'd been sitting in that taxi all this time, when suddenly the sound of a shot made him drop to the ground as the taxi drove off. For a moment he was back in Afghanistan, and he flexed his shoulder out of instict, praying he hadn't been shot, before whipping out his gun, rolling over, flipping the safety, and firing toward where he'd seen the figure lurking in the alley. He heard a curse and knew he'd hit his target, before two cop cars sped into the street and one roared down the alley, men tumbling out of them and surrounding the cursing man, who was on the ground, grasping his bleeding leg and screaming oaths. John took a deep breath and looked at the woman he'd slammed onto the ground. She was looking at the scene with calm silver eyes, assessing everything with a single glance. John recognized that look.


	4. Sherlock

**Sherlock**

And now we finally get a whole chapter with Sherlock featuring! Sorry it took so long.

* * *

"Are you okay?" he asked, deciding it wasn't the time to ask why his neighbor was being shot at, and why she had the singular name of _Sherlock_.

"Fine," she said quickly, then looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Turns out you aren't quite the invalid."

John blinked. "Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?"

Sherlock turned back to the scene, still scanning the scene, before a man in plain clothes - a detective, John guessed - jogged up.

"We got him, but he's shot. You didn't..." he trailed off as Sherlock shook his head.

"No, it was a Good Samaritan, it seems. Meet my neighbor, Mr..." she trailed off and John picked up the sentence.

"John, John Watson," he said, reaching out a hand. The other man shook it, looking a bit confused, and glancing at Sherlock, who looked unfazed.

"The gun's legal, so you can relax, Lestrade," she said, tone clipped and short, as if she were busy and got interrupted.

"How -" John began to ask, but she interrupted him impatiently.

"You've been in the Army. Afghanistan or Iraq, from the looks of it, and your limp is purely psychosomatic. Very good at what you do - did. A doctor, probably."

John just stood, open mouthed, but Lestrade seemed to be less amazed. "Sherlock, I can't just let him walk around with a gun without evidence that it's legal. He did shoot someone tonight."

"A killer, Lestrade, he shot an assassin. Hardly someone worth worrying over."

"Look, just because it was done for you doesn't mean I can - "

"Oh, pay _attention_! Look at his hair, the way he's standing in parade rest right now, the crack shot he just made in the dark! He's clearly a soldier. Home with a limp - but he wasn't limping just now or when he helped me to the door, so psychosomatic. Wounded in trauma, then. Possibly Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Wanting to live around a University that specializes in medicine - most likely his profession. _Simple_, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade looked slightly mollified, and John looked amazed. "That. Was. Brilliant." he said, taking a moment between each word to enunciate.

Sherlock looked up, a slight smile on one side of her face. It was the only sign of amusement or even social kindness that he'd seen from her yet. But it disappeared quickly and then she was marching toward the door. "Call me in the morning to let me know how that case with the lawyer turned out. Good night."

John and Lestrade looked at each other for a moment, and John finally shrugged his shoulders. "I can show you the papers, if you'd like, but she's right."

Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets. "I know. She normally is, I guess, I just kind of keep hoping that someday I'll get something she doesn't. Have a good night."

John nodded and turned toward the door, noting darkly that he was limping still.


	5. Locked Out

**Locked Out**

It's taken quite a bit of doing, but we finally have another chapter. It's difficult to write in character but with Fem!Lock, just saying. I really don't want to change her too much...

Also - this chapter was really fun to write, hope you enjoy it.

* * *

John grunted annoyedly. It had been a week since he'd shot someone in an alley, and now life seemed twice as boring as it had been beforehand. And now the first obstacle he faced was also terribly mundane.

At first, after the incident, he'd thought that perhaps he'd finally found a way for his life to have meaning. Not much meaning, of course, but shooting someone was preferable to pacing a flat. His psychotherapist had written that he was "strangely happy" when he'd gone to see her the next day.

But nothing happened. No noise from his neighbor, nothing from the police, even that Detective Inspector Lestrade hadn't called him for his papers or something.

Back to boring.

And now he'd locked his keys in his flat. He stared at the door, pursed his lips, cleared his throat, and looked around. No one to help him in.

He began to half limp, half stomp toward the stairs. He supposed he'd have to get Mrs. Hudson to unlock it.

After taking a ridiculous amount of time (to him) to make it down the stairs and to her flat, he rung the bell.

Once.

Twice.

He looked around, put his hands in his pockets, pursed his lips again. Looked like he'd have to make do at the cafe next door until she came back, unless he found someone else he could ask.

Someone else he could ask.

He turned back toward the stairs, taking them one at a time, ignoring his leg's painful throbbing and finally making his way down the hall. He stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath, clenched his fist and knocked quickly.

No answer.

"Ah," he cleared his throat. "Yes, hello? I'm your, ah, neighbor, and I just wondered if you could help me out with somethi-" the door flew open and a dishevelled woman glanced him over.

"Ah." He cleared his throat again. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"Slept for three days. Probably about time. Need to eat. Come in." She spoke quickly, as usual.

"Sorry - three days?" he asked without thinking, limping in. She shut the door behind him and turned toward what must be the kitchen. He tried not to stare at how unkept she was - she had striped silk pajamas and a large houserobe on - it looked much like her large coat when she moved quickly.

"Had a case right after the assassin. Didn't get much sleep. Ate two pizzas and went to bed. Didn't recieve any texts - would have woken. Must have just slept."

John wondered vaguely if her bladder was made of steel.

"Well," he said, turning around in the doorway to the kitchen, as he didn't quite know what to do with himself, "I, ah, locked my keys in my flat. I was wondering if you had the keys to, um, these doors?" He nodded toward the "closet" door next to him, which would lead into his bedroom.

Sherlock had her mouth full - it looked like she'd simply taken two slices of bread with nothing in between and shoved half of them into her mouth. She chewed quickly, swallowed, and looked at the door. "No." She started rummaging in a drawer. John was disappointed, but tried not to look it.

"Ah. Well. Sorry to bother you, then." Sherlock came forward and he moved to get out of the doorway, but she stopped and knelt by the door to his flat, sticking something in the keyhole and putting her ear to the door, listening closely. "Or... that could work..." John said, more to himself then to her, as she concentrated and began to wiggle the doorknob slightly. He shook his head and blinked, realizing that Mrs. Hudson was probably wrong if she thought his privacy couldn't be invaded at any moment.

The lock made a sharp _click_ and the door swung open. Sherlock stood, pocketing her lockpick and shaking back dark curls. "There." She looked at him. "Now we're even."

"Even?" John's eyebrows raised.

"For the shooting thing. Now we're even."

John opened his mouth, then frowned and shut it. He didn't think shooting someone was even with opening a door, but on the other hand, he had rather needed the door opened. "Right. Fine. Thank you."


	6. In Need of a Doctor

**In Need of a Doctor**

I really don't want to bore you all with an exact repetition of the BBC's "Sherlock and John meet and work together" sort of thing. I have a lot more I want to explore in this fic. But I also don't want to deviate too far away from what's already been established.

So this fic is really riding a line between canon, BBC canon, and my own brain.

Anyway, if you've stuck with me so far, thank you very, very much, and I hope you won't be disappointed.

* * *

Two days after locking his keys out of his flat, John had gotten drunk. Really drunk. By himself. Drunk enough that when he'd gotten home, he'd fallen on the stairs and giggled madly at himself, until he'd started feeling sick, and then after that...

Well, he couldn't remember.

So when he woke up in his bed with a raving headache, vaguely aware that someone was talking quickly to him, he was very confused. Very confused indeed. He noted vaguely to himself that he was dehydrated and needed water, and that would probably help the headache. The words that were still being spoken at a very rapid pace were still just a hazy noise until his head swum and they adjusted to being clear, and far too loud.

"...So I need an assistant. Preferably someone with medical knowledge. Can you be dressed in fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah, sure," John said, not exactly sure whom he was talking to - he was still blinking himself awake. The door shut and he stumbled out of bed, grabbing the door to his wardrobe as his bad leg began to buckle out from under him. He swore and reached for his cane, then began to pull clothes out from various shelves until he blinked again and stopped, looking at the door in confusion.

That was the door to the other flat.

His head was still swimming, but he managed to piece together what must be going on as he disrobed and dressed himself.

Sherlock hadn't locked the door between the flats again. He hadn't either, from his end, but still, he felt it was strange that she hadn't, considering her preference not to have a neighbor at all, according to what Mrs. Hudson had mentioned...

And now she was waking him up with orders to get dressed. He wished he'd paid more attention to what she'd been saying. His left hand twitched and he decided he was going to get himself some water for his headache.

He was in the kitchen downing a glass when he heard the door to his bedroom click open again. He hoped she'd learn to knock before she caught him at a... bad time. Good thing it hadn't taken him long to dress. He grimaced, then set the glass down and cleared his throat as she entered the room, looking windswept and determined.

"Ready to go?"

"Ah. Yes. Ready," he said, left hand twitching again, wondering where they were going. She twirled, her coat doing that _thing_ again, and marched back the way she'd come. John grabbed his keys off the table with one hand and his cane in the other, then, after debating a second, pulled open a drawer, grabbed his gun, and checked the safety, shoving it down his pants again as he limped as quickly as he could after the woman.


	7. Crime Scene

**Crime Scene**

Our first crime scene!

This is a whole new challenge because I have NO idea what a real crime scene looks like. The closest reference I have is when a car flipped itself twice in the middle of the night on the front lawn of a home I was staying at. So, if you are in law enforcement/the medical field/autopsies/forensics/anything like this, please excuse mistakes.

Without further ado:

* * *

Sherlock and John sat with two feet between them on the taxi seat, staring out opposite windows until John cleared his throat at the same time Sherlock said, "Out with it, then."

John wasn't expecting her to just let him ask questions, so he stammered for a moment. "Ah. Um. Right, so... what are you then?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Isn't the normal question _who_ are you?" she said, glancing at him quickly before resuming her gaze out the window. "I am a consulting detective. Only one in the world, currently, and that's hardly likely to change."

"Why not?"

Sherlock stayed silent.

"Why am I here?"

Sherlock glanced at him again, as if wondering whether his head were actually on his body or if it had somehow managed to disconnect. "You weren't listening earlier, then. I need an assistant, Anderson won't work with me."

"Who's Anderson?"

"Forensics."

"...We're going to a crime scene, then."

"Obvious."

"Right." John shifted in his seat and looked around. "Right. Um. Should I have brought my papers?"

"For the gun? No. Lestrade's probably already looked you up."

"Right. Okay then." Silence for a bit. "What's a consulting detective?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"Lestrade didn't look _that_ bad."

"You haven't met Anderson."

The rest of the taxi ride was quiet but companionable, and John's chief thought when he got out of the car was how nice it was to stretch his leg. He followed Sherlock to a tape that said "Crime Scene" all over it like something out of a cop drama, and ducked under it as Sherlock held it up.

"Hello freak," a sarcastic voice said, and John straightened up to see a dark-skinned woman looking at Sherlock with a sneer. "Why are you here?"

"Lestrade invited me," Sherlock answered in an equally frigid tone.

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look around."

"Why?"

"Oh, you know why, Sally." Sherlock swept past the woman, and John turned to limp after before being stopped by a hand.

"Wait. Who's this?" Sally wanted to know.

"He's with me. My - colleague," Sherlock said, turning to face Sally again.

"_You_," Sally's voice was like icicles, "have a colleague."

"Come on, John," Sherlock said, ignoring Sally, and John once again attempted to follow her as she headed into the warehouse - Sally let her hand drop and instead followed after them.

A pale, ratty-faced man was marching up to Sherlock determinedly. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

"It's a _crime scene_, Sherlock, I don't want it contaminated."

"Of course. And I see you've found a girlfriend. Nice to know your attention will be diverted from me."

"Oh, don't pretend you've figured that out, someone told you that."

"Your shampoo told me that."

"My shampoo?!"

Sherlock made a face. "It's for _men_."

"OF COURSE it's for men, I'M wearing it!" Anderson was obviously put off now.

"So is Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock stated, nodding back toward Sally. "So happy for you both. Now, may I come in?"

"Now, what you're trying to imply-" Anderson said, looking flustered.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally's husband is thrilled to be on his business trip. And I'm sure you were simply lending the Sergeant some shampoo after she'd run out, as he wasn't there to get it for her. You should have lent her some pants as well - it seem she's been crawling for evidence on this case, by the state of the knees on hers."

John took a deep breath. Ouch. Sherlock swept past Anderson, ignoring the state of shock on both his and Sergeant Donovan's faces. John attempted to do the same, and limped past them both with a nod.

They stopped at a booth where several blue bodysuits were laid out, and a familiar Detective Inspector was getting into one. John began to shrug off his coat so he'd be able to pull one on himself.

"Ah. Sherlock. Glad you could make it," Lestrade said, then noticed John. "What's he doing here?"

"He's with me."

"Yes, I know, but why-"

"I said he's with me."

"Aren't you going to put one on?" John held out a blue bodysuit to Sherlock, who just gave him a look. John decided he'd just put this one on himself.

A moment later they were walking past large crates - the type one put on cargo ferries to ship up and down the Thames. They were nearing the riverside end of the warehouse when Lestrade turned to the side and the body was abruptly revealed. "Third one this week."

Sherlock came forward quickly, looking over the body with minute precision. A hand was lifted, a collar wiped, a pocket turned inside out - it only seemed to take a minute before she straightened, brushing a stray lock out of her eyes.

"The name's Douglas Brown," Lestrade said, "We found it on his credit cards. Major investor in a company called BioWare."

Sherlock nodded, eyes still scanning the body. "Stop it."

Lestrade put his arms out. "I didn't do anything!"

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

John and Lestrade attempted not to think while Sherlock scanned the body and checked her phone, before Lestrade got impatient.

"You have anything?"

"Not much, but enough. He took a flight yesterday morning from Amsterdam to London - arrived early. Had breakfast on the flight - coffee, too, by the looks of it. Newly remarried - fast on the old marriage, by the looks of it. Came here on business, was planning to return last night by the lack of a suitcase."

"Now if you're just making all this up -"

"Pocket. Half of an airline napkin with a note written on it in Dutch. Coffee dripping on the corner. The center has half of the DutchAir logo - the only flight from the Netherlands that comes to London through their airline recently was yesterday morning from Amsterdam. We know he came yesterday because of the napkin and we know he came on business because of the briefcase, and the fact that his ridiculous logo is on absolutely everything he's wearing, down to the socks."

"How do you know he didn't have a case?"

"He came yesterday but it rained yesterday and there are no splashmarks near his ankles or pantlegs - nearly impossible not to get any muck on you in rainy London carrying or dragging a case of any overnight size."

"And the briefcase?"

Sherlock looked at them both. "Obvious."

"It's not - obvious to me," John stated, and Sherlock looked at him blankly.

"Good heavens, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so _boring_." She sighed. "Look at his pants! Right pant leg, a foot down right above the knee, the fabric's been rubbed repeatedly. Also small flecks of black rubber in the fingerprints of his hand. The type they use on briefcase handles. A briefcase has been rubbing on his pants at his side every time he takes a step, and the rubber from his handle has been overused and is flaking."

"But how could you _possibly_ tell he was newly remarried," Lestrade persisted. Sherlock pointed to the man's left hand.

"There's a callous on his left hand, underneath the ring finger on the palm, where a ring would rub. It's large, so it must have been built up over time. But the ring is brand new, and is thinner than the thickness of the callous allows. New ring, but the hand's previously had one. Conclusion - the old ring came off and the new one was put on. Remarried, but fast enough after the divorce that the callous hasn't shrunk."

"Brilliant," John breathed in amazement. Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Are you aware that you do that out loud?"

"What? Sorry, I'll stop."

"No - no, it's fine," she said, looking at the body quickly. John looked, too, trying to notice all the things she'd noticed in practically half a minute.

"What do you think?" she asked him after a second.

"Me?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Please," she said, waving a hand toward the body. John looked at Lestrade, who shrugged and nodded.

"Whatever, help yourself."

John knelt next to the body, lifting a hand, smelling the man's lips, then leaned up and shook his head.

"Asphyxiation - probably choked on his own vomit. Doesn't look natural, though." He looked back at Lestrade. "More like suicide by overdose. You said there were two more of these?"

Lestrade nodded.

"How do you have serial suicides?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"So do you know who killed him?" Lestrade asked, and Sherlock shook her head.

"Might have a better idea after I look at that briefcase, though."

"You keep going on about a briefcase."

"Yes, where is it?"

"There was no case."

"What?!" Sherlock whirled to face the Detective Inspector.

"There wasn't a case, Sherlock, there is no case."

Sherlock walked away quickly, breaking into a run as she turned the corner and started to run toward some rather startled forensics officers. John and Lestrade followed her, turning into the main aisle between the crates.

"CASE! HAS ANYONE SEEN A BRIEFCASE IN THIS BUILDING?" Sherlock shouted at the officers, who shook their heads, wide-eyed.

"There isn't a case, Sherlock!" Lestrade called after her.

"Marvellous!" Sherlock turned to face them both.

"What is?" John asked, thoroughly lost by now.

"They aren't suicides, they're killings. Serial killings. We've got a serial killer on our hands, love those, there's always something to look forward to."

"How do you know?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"His briefcase! Where did it go, did he _swallow_ it?! We know he had it - he hasn't gone to a hotel, he's had no time to change - someone took it. Someone brought him here, killed him, and then took his briefcase. Ahh..." she turned and paced a bit. "Serial killers are always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake." Her silver eyes were glittering excitedly now.

"We can't wait for him to make a mistake!" Lestrade argued frustratedly.

"No, think, man, we have our mistake!"

"What mistake?!" Lestrade shouted, but Sherlock was already heading out the door.

"THINK!"


	8. Aftershock

**Aftershock**

Whew! The last chapter was more than tough to write, so this one's a bit of a respite. As you can probably tell, I'm trying to stay a bit closer to BBC canon - though not without my own twists and turns. Don't count on everything to end like in the show. There will be different reasons, different villains, different clues - just in front of the same backdrop as before. I also want my readers to feel familiar with this 'verse - and I felt that scenes close to the original might help a bit.

Thanks again for sticking with me thus far.

* * *

John limped slowly away from the warehouse. Sherlock had disappeared in a rush. He'd changed out of his bodysuit while DI Lestrade went over the body again, trying to figure out what he'd missed.

John almost felt sorry for him.

Sergeant Donovan was talking to an officer by the crime tape. She nodded to him as he came forward. He looked around, cleared his throat. His left hand twitched. "Ah. Where am I?"

Sally raised an eyebrow. "Charleton."

"Sherlock?"

"Ran out a few minutes ago."

"Right." John shifted uncomfortably, looking around. "Do you know where I could - catch a cab? It's just - well. My leg." He hated admitting it.

Sally sighed and lifted the caution tape. "Down two blocks is a main road. You can try there."

John nodded gratefully and limped forward to duck underneath the tape. When he straightened, she continued. "But you're not her friend. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. So where do you figure?"

John shrugged, shaking his head. "Nowhere. I'm - nobody." It was almost a relief to say out loud. "I'm nobody. I just met her."

"Well, if you want my advice," Sally said, and John was surprised to think _Not bloody likely_ - "Stay away from her."

"Why?" He adopted the voice she'd used on Sherlock earlier.

"You know why she's here? She doesn't get paid or anything. She likes it. And the more horrific it is, the more she enjoys it."

"Why?"

"Because she's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored." Sally shrugged. "Someday we'll be standing around a body, and she'll be the one who put it there."

John's hand tightened around his cane at her casual tone, but Sally was starting to walk back toward the warehouse. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she called back over her shoulder, and John turned away, limping toward the main street.


	9. Mysterious Man

**Mysterious Man**

There's a constant struggle between keeping in character and keeping Sherlock female. So I'm having a vague issue with deciding to switch pronouns halfway through a sentence. If you notice a male word instead of a female one when it's not supposed to be so, let me know please?

So far we have John, Sherlock, Anderson, Sally, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Who do you think we meet today?

I received a few more reviews, and may I just say I'm sitting here grinning like an idiot.

* * *

John's leg was beginning to ache more than usual, and his head still throbbed from his drinking. He wished he'd thought to bring some more water along.

A man walked by and caught his eye, then pointed to a wall. John looked automatically. A security camera was swiveling away from him.

A woman came from behind and brushed against his arm, looking pointedly at another wall. Another security camera, turning to look the other direction.

John was beginning to get the point, and turned slowly, watching every camera he could see on the block begin to decidedly ignore his presence.

A car pulled up. Tinted windows. The door opened to him.

John clenched his left fist and his jaw, and stepped off the curb to enter, closing the door.

"Hello." He was greeted by a calm, rather good-looking man who was texting rapidly.

"Ah. Hello." John settled himself in. The car pulled out.

"I'm... John, by the way."

The man nodded, eyes never leaving his phone.

"Who are you?"

"Ahhh... Anthony."

"Is that your real name?" John already knew it wasn't, and when the man looked up with an amused smile, he wasn't surprised.

"No."

"Right. Well then." John pretended to look out the black window for a bit, then cleared his throat. "Any point in asking... where I'm going?"

"None at all," replied 'Anthony'.

The car angled slightly downward. John supposed they were entering a parking garage, by the slow speed of the car and the cooling air. After a bit the car stopped, and the door clicked open for him to exit.

He got out, and Anthony followed. He really was rather attractive. Too bad he probably worked for the mob.

"Doctor Watson," a man greeted him. "Do sit down."

There was a single chair in the center of the deserted garage, in front of this strange man leaning on his umbrella. John took one look at it and decided he didn't want this stranger towering over him.

"You know... you could just call me. I have a phone."

"When one is attempting to divert the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one must get creative. Do take a seat. I'm sure your leg must be bothering you."

Actually, John's leg was okay. The throbbing had reduced. His head even seemed clearer.

"I don't want to."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"How are you recovering?" he said finally.

"From what?" John snapped back.

"The drinking," the man said, pulling a book out of his pocket and flipping through it.

"Fine. It's - fine." John made his voice as frigid as possible.

"Oddly happy, it says here." A finger traced along a page in the little book.

"Where did you get that." John almost flinched as he recognized the words he'd seen his therapist write.

"Could it be that someone is happy with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Who says I'm happy with her?"

The man shrugged.

"Why am I here." It came as an order, not a question.

"I have a little - arrangement - I would like to propose to you. A moderate sum of money every month. Enough to ensure you're... comfortable." The man twisted the handle of his umbrella.

"In exchange for -" John let the sentence stop.

"Information."

"About?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Nothing invasive. Just a general how-she's-doing."

"Why?"

"Do you know who struggled to get you into your flat from the stairs last night?"

John's brain had to sort out the sudden subject change. Of course. Sherlock. He suddenly was glad he'd only been eating Mrs. Hudson's food - maybe he hadn't been too embarrassingly heavy.

"Right. Why are you telling me this?"

"Because she seems to like you. Far better than anyone I've sent, in fact." The man frowned, then looked up with a plaster smile, and John remembered Mrs. Hudson mentioning all the failed tenants that had tried to rent his flat before.

"And that matters because..." John raised an eyebrow.

"I worry about her," the man said. "Tirelessly." Something in his tone didn't appeal to John, and his free hand balled up into a fist while the other clenched his cane.

"Are we done here?"

The man smirked at him. "You tell me."

"I think we are." John's voice was flat.

"I could ask you to stay away from her -" the man interjected as John started to walk away - "but I can see you won't."

John turned. "How?"

"Your left hand."

"What about it?"

The man glanced at his notebook. "You have a twitch in your left hand. PTSD, your therapist thinks. She thinks you're struggling to come to terms with the pains of your past." The sarcasm was practically dripping from his voice, then it suddenly hardened. "Fire her. She's got it wrong. You're stressed now and your hand is perfectly steady. You aren't traumatized by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it."


	10. Back Home

**Back Home**

I think something that's amazing me the most right now is how varied my viewers are. I have had people read from all over the world - thank you so very, very much. I was worried that writing a Fem!Lock would scare most of you away, but it seems quite a lot of you are reading past the chapter where her gender is revealed! Thank you.

If any of you are from London - I'm doing what research I can via the internet, but please excuse me if I end up pulling locations out of a hat.

I have a fun little extra in here too if you decide to try it.

Do please enjoy.

* * *

Anthony dropped John off just outside the building, after spending most of the ride listening to the soft tap-tap-tap of his constant texting. The door opened automatically as they stopped.

"Ah. Well then. Goodbye," John said, not getting out right away.

"Goodbye."

"Ah. Right. Um - I don't suppose you have any free evenings?"

Anthony chuckled. "All the time."

"Right." John waited, but Anthony just looked up at him with eyebrows raised.

"Goodbye."

"Right, right. Goodbye." John got out of the car and closed the door, not bothering to watch as it drove away.

John entered his flat to find Sherlock sprawled out on John's couch with her eyes closed and hands in front of her mouth in an almost prayerful position. He hoped this wasn't going to become a regular thing - what was the point in having two flats? He noticed that she'd drawn a chalk door on the wall that separated his sitting room from hers and sighed. "I hope you're not thinking of redecorating," he said, trying to sound less nervous than he felt. His left hand was twitching again, and he noticed this time, balling it up into a fist, as if somehow he could annoy the mystery man by doing so.

"It's easier here," was all the woman said.

"To do what - exactly?" John shifted his weight off his bad leg.

"Think. Pass me your phone."

John tossed it over and she caught it with one hand, flipping it so it was the right way round.

"What's wrong?" She'd caught a glimpse of his face when he'd tossed the phone.

"Met someone today."

"Oh. Who?"

"Not sure."

Her eyes narrowed. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"We could have split the money. Next time, think it over."

"Who was he?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"One of them. Now, I need you to send a email."

"Why is there a door drawn on my wall?"

"A email, John." She held out the phone imperiously, and John took it, wondering why she'd taken it if she didn't intend to use it herself.

"Only if you tell me why there's a door drawn in chalk on my wall."

"It's a present to myself."

"A present."

She tossed her head impatiently. "All right, it's the wrapping. Now then. Email."

John sighed, shifting his weight so he could prop the cane against a chair and use both hands to text.

"To D - dot - brown - dot - bioware - at gmail - dot - com," she enunciated carefully, then continued "These words exactly: _I missed my flight. What happened last night. I think I was attacked._ _2-6 Moxon St, come tonight._"

Struggling to type as fast as she could speak, John frowned and concentrated on remembering it.

"Have you got it?"

He grunted.

"Have you sent it?"

"Hold on! I'm trying!"

"Let me know when you're finished." She got up quickly, whirling into his kitchen and disappearing for a moment, then returning with a briefcase. John looked up as he pressed the send button and watched her throw herself back on his sofa, settling into a cross-legged position, briefcase in front of her, hands folded in front of her face again as she stared at it. John noted the logo on the case. It looked absurd - nothing to do with biology or hardware, it was a rather simple drawing of a ship over - mountains? Waves? Either way it was rubbish. And he knew where he'd seen it before.


	11. The Case

**The Case**

Anyone figure out the Easter egg in the last chapter? She did state it rather clearly.

Anyway. It turns out that where I live is a really weird time zone for my readers - I seem to post things in the middle of the night for them, and then I get all my views in the middle of _my_ night, and get to see how many people are reading me across the globe. Super cool.

As always, please enjoy!

* * *

"Is that his case?" John asked, then changed it to a statement. "That's his case. Douglas Brown's case."

"Yes." Sherlock was still staring at it, but then she looked up and caught his eye. "I didn't kill him."

"I never said you did."

"No, but it would make sense."

"Do people normally think you killed them?"

"Sometimes, when the victim's a woman. Apparently I can't kill men," she said, half-bitterly, as if she resented being told she couldn't do _anything_, even if it was homicide. John wondered if she'd taken his moment of confusion as a compliment.

"So... how did you get her case?"

Sherlock looked up. "The mark, John! His logo, on everything he wore, down to his shoes! Maybe he left it in the car. The -"

"The murderer had his case." John sat down on a chair across from the sofa. "So did you find him?"

"Who? The murderer? No. Didn't take me long to find the case, though - had to rummage through a few dumpsters."

"Have you taken a shower?" John asked.

"No."

John made a mental note not to get too close. And to scrub his couch.

"So what now?"

Sherlock threw open the case. It was your basic briefcase - a pocket on the side for a tablet, a pocket for a phone, lots of papers. There was a phone, in pieces, scattered on top of the papers. "What's missing?"

John looked at the pile of papers. "From the case? How could I know?"

"His computer, John! His tablet! It's not on the body, it's not in the case, we know he had one, the inside of the pocket's been worn from it being put in and taken out. You have his email!"

"I have his - wait. Who did I just email?" John gave a disconcerted look at his phone.

Sherlock was back to staring at the case.

"Did I just email a murderer?"

His phone beeped.

Sherlock jumped up. "Keep your evening free." She left through the kitchen, and John realized she must have picked the lock to that door as well. He sighed and folded his coat sleeves past his wrists to use the fabric as make-shift gloves so he could move the briefcase from his sofa, then headed to the bathroom for a fabric spray to get the dumpster-smell to go away. He heard the shower start in the flat next door and was glad that he wouldn't have to clean it again before the end of the night. Hopefully.

He realized he was taking her invasion of his flat for granted and groaned inwardly.


	12. Let's Have Dinner

**Let's Have Dinner**

I want to make a quick note that it is _not_ a guaranteed "the taxi driver did it". I mean, honestly, what would be the fun in that? You have to think a _little_ harder than that.

Also let it be known that I posted a small Doctor Who one-shot for those who also enjoy that fandom.

* * *

John was trying to take a nap later that evening when Sherlock opened his bedroom door. He was beginning to understand that she had never been trained to knock and probably never would be trained to knock, and thought briefly about changing in the bathroom from now on.

"Come on. Time for dinner."

"What?" he said, rolling to the edge of the bed and sitting up blearily. His headache had faded halfway through the afternoon, but he hadn't been able to replace the hours of sleep he'd lost at the pub.

"I told you to keep your evening free." Sherlock tossed his jacket to him. She must have picked it up in the sitting room. He was suddenly glad it was cool enough that he'd slept in most of his clothes.

He pulled on the jacket as his mind briefly wondered if this was a date. Then his stomach reminded him how hungry he was and he decided he didn't care. Also Sherlock looked like the least likely person to indulge in romance that he knew.

"Why dinner?" he asked as he grabbed his cane. Sherlock was whisking out the door before he could finish his sentence. "You hungry?"

"No."

John frowned, his left fist clenching, then decided to bring his gun again. He seemed to be packing heat all the time these days.

He didn't really mind.

The cab ride was quiet, and when they stopped at a simple restaurant John got out quickly. He could smell food. He was surprised at himself - he hadn't felt hungry recently. His therapist would probably have told him it was a mental disorder.

Probably was. All the same, he wanted to eat now, and so when Sherlock opened the door for him he limped into the small room and inhaled, enjoying the scent of pasta and tomatoes.

Sherlock steered him to the table nearest the door and the window. "Have a seat," she said, pulling out one and turning to sit in the other one herself.

"Ah. Thanks." John's left hand twitched again, and he put his cane up against the wall.

"Sherlock! Good to see you. Anything on the menu, for you both, free. On the house." A large, bearded man bustled over loudly and handed them both menus. He gestured to Sherlock with a meaningful look at John. "This lass saved my life!"

"Hardly," Sherlock said, glancing briefly at her menu before shoving it aside. "Good to see you, Angelo."

"They had me on a murder charge! She cleared my name!" Angelo was still raving.

"If that can be called _clear_," Sherlock interjected. "I was able to prove at the time of a particularly nasty double murder that he was on the other side of town breaking and entering."

"Ah," John said, with a nod at the bearded man.

"I'll get a candle for the table. Nice and romantic. You two take your time." Angelo didn't seem perturbed at all by mention of his previous - ah - adventures.

"Ah. I'm not her date-"

"Just a mo, then," Angelo said, ignoring John and walking away. John sighed and looked over at Sherlock, but she was gazing out the window. John realized where they were - right across from 2-6 Moxon St. He realized why they were there.

"Do you think he'll come?" He didn't bother clarifying _whom_ - he had an idea Sherlock would be thinking of no one else. "He'd have to be crazy to come."

"He has killed three people."

"Right. Well."

"That's the frailty of genius, John, it needs observing."

"So. Um. Is that why I'm here, then?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just glanced over and quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Don't you have an - ah - boyfriend?"

The eyebrow rose higher. Angelo brought the candle and ducked out of the way.

"Or. Right. A girlfriend?"

Sherlock shook her head.

"Right. Right. Me as well, then."

"John, I think I should tell you that I consider myself married to my work, and I'm really flattered by your-" Sherlock looked a bit flustered now.

He interjected before she could continue. "No - no - not what I meant, that's fine, that's all fine."

Sherlock nodded and returned to watching the building across the street. John looked over his menu, red-faced, and ordered his pasta from Angelo. Sherlock didn't order anything - not even to drink. She must really not have been hungry.

His pasta didn't take long, and John ate like the hungry man he was. He looked up at Sherlock. "Anything so far?"

"No. Here." She handed him a phone. His phone.

"Why-"

"I added my number."

"Ah. Right. Um." John didn't know what to say to this, after having just been told that she was obviously not interested.

"In case we split up." Sherlock had read his expression all too well.

"Right. Right." He nodded and pocketed the phone.

"_There,_" Sherlock said suddenly, and John looked down her line of sight to see a taxi. "Sat there for a minute. No one got in or out. Come on."

She got up and ran out the door. John followed close on her heels. "Stop!" she yelled loudly. "Police!"

The taxi began to pull out and she pushed John down the road after it. "GO!"


	13. Taxi Man

**Taxi Man**

Let it be known that I crave reviews. Please. I have no idea if I'm doing anything right at this point. Yay for winging it.

Also thank you again for sticking with my ramblings thus far. I truly appreciate it.

* * *

John found himself running after the taxi, ignoring the burning starting in his lungs. An obnoxious noise came from his pocket, and he realized it must be his phone - he pulled it out and hit the button without stopping.

"Yes - hello?"

"John. You still following them?"

"Sherlock - " he looked behind him quickly and realized she wasn't running with him. "Where are you?!"

"Take a right."

John realized he'd come to a crossroads - the taxi was continuing straight but he took the right.

"At the next light, take a left."

"Where are you?" he demanded between breaths.

"Take a left!" she demanded over the phone, and he turned to run left. "You'll have to jump the fence."

It took John a moment to scramble over, but soon he was running again.

"Right again," came her calm voice over the speaker, and John decided to save his breath for running.

"And another left."

"What - do - I - do - when - I - catch up?" John spoke between breaths.

"Tell them you're police. There's a badge in your left pocket. There they are."

The buildings on either side of John suddenly opened up to another street, and the taxi nearly ran into him. He ran forward to pound on the door. "Stop! Police!" he yelled with what breath he had left, then stopped and put his hands on his knees to breathe as the taxi stopped. The door opened and a man stepped out.

"Damn. Not him." He could hear Sherlock's disappointed voice from the speaker in his hand. "Ask to check his passport, all the same."

"Um, did you need something?" The man spoke with a distinctly American accent.

"Ah, yes," John fumbled in his left pocket and found a booklet, pulled it out and flashed the badge inside. "I just need a look at your passport, if I can."

The man looked worried as he rummaged in the taxi and pulled out a briefcase. John reached back to touch the handle of his gun as the man opened his case, but he simply rummaged through some papers and pulled out a passport, handing it over.

John looked through it quickly, noting the man was from America and his name. He figured that would be enough for Sherlock to go on.

"Yes, thank you, everything looks good." He was still gulping air - he cursed his laziness around his flat. He handed the passport back. "You're all good. Welcome to London."

The man still looked confused, but he nodded, smiled in return to John's quick nod of reassurance, then got back in the taxi, which pulled out.

John turned around, still breathing hard, then put the phone to his ear again. "Still there?"

"Yes." He could hear quiet chuckling on the other side of the phone.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just - _Welcome to London._"

John found himself laughing along.


	14. Dessert A-Head of Schedule

**Dessert A-Head of Schedule**

OH I HAVE BEEN LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS CHAPTER SO MUCH

As per my profile, I am female. And often I get frustrated watching detective/cop shows, with all these guys running down dark alleyways at night, and realizing that as a woman, even if I had a gun, I could probably find myself getting raped in that kind of situation...

So I decided to explore a Sherlock who was still brilliant, who was independent and smart and just as snarky as our familiar one, but who also understood her physical limits and capabilities (or not? Spoilers), and knew how to work around them.

Voila! Fem!Lock.

As usual, please enjoy! Reviews are much appreciated, good or bad - just make it constructive-criticism-type-bad.

* * *

John caught a taxi home, but he was still breathing hard when he threw open the door to his flat. "That was the _most ridiculous_ thing I have _ever_ done," he declared, throwing his jacket at a chair and then easing himself into it. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock was already occupying his couch. She chuckled.

"And you invaded Afghanistan." She was in her "thinking prayer" pose again.

John looked over at her. "Where were you, while I was running round London?"

She held up a phone. "I tracked your progress." He stayed silent, waiting for more, and she looked up at him and sighed. "It can hack pretty much any CCTV in the city. Better than running around dark alleys in the dead of night, if you're built like me."

_Built like me. _It was strange phrasing, and when John figured it out he blurted out the answer. "A woman."

Sherlock wrinkled her nose, but said nothing.

"Right. Well. I am having some ice cream. My throat is raw. Would you like some?"

"No, thanks. Don't eat when I'm working." The words were short and clipped.

John's left hand twitched as he made a mental doctor's note to try and make her eat if she tried to go longer than two days without food. In the meantime, he was going to grab some ice cream. He entered the kitchen and opened the freezer.

"Oh, damn." He shut the freezer and put his head on his arm, then opened the freezer again, hoping he was just tired from all the running. No. It was still there.

"Sherlock." It was a shout. "Why is there a _head_ in my freezer?"

"Mine was full."

"Of what, toes? I don't want a _head_ in my _fridge_, Sherlock."

"It's for an experiment, leave it alone."

John thought for a moment that this was probably the right time to start laying down the law about how this was _his_ flat and she had _her_ flat, but instead he found himself pulling the ice cream tub from the top shelf and noting gladly that she'd put the head on the bottom shelf so it couldn't drip on anything.

He made himself a bowl - rather larger than necessary - and put the ice cream away again, taking a large bite as he stepped back into the sitting room and took a seat on the chair across from Sherlock.

"So," he said with his mouth full, then caught himself and swallowed, "What was that all about?"

Sherlock shrugged. "There was very little chance it would work - proving a point, mostly."

John shrugged and frowned. "What point?"

Sherlock grinned - the first real grin he'd seen on her face - and pulled a stick out from behind the couch, tossing it over to him.

His cane. His mouth opened, then shut, then remembered running through London - how _brilliant was it_ that he had _ran_ through London - and it opened and shut again, and he looked up to see Sherlock, still grinning, heading back to her own flat through the kitchen.


	15. A DisJointed Understanding

**A DisJointed Understanding**

Something I've always wondered about is Sherlock's past - what started the drug addictions? Why the hate/love relationship with Mycroft? Honestly believing you're a sociopath is a hard truth to decide about yourself...

Hopefully I'll be able to explore that in this fic a little more than it is in canon.

* * *

John was halfway through his second bowl of ice cream when he heard noise filtering through the wall between the flats. It started to get louder, and then he heard Sherlock start shouting.

"LESTRADE," he heard clearly, "IF ANDERSON GOES THROUGH MY UNDERWEAR DRAWER I WILL REPLACE MY PET SKULL WITH HIS. PUT THOSE DOWN. THOSE ARE FOR AN EXPERIMENT."

The last bit, he guessed, was probably about something in the fridge. He got up and went through his bedroom to enter her kitchen. The sight of Donovan holding up a bag of eyeballs put him off his ice cream and he set the whole bowl in the sink.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" he asked the frustrated consulting detective. She just shook her head angrily. Lestrade peeked through the door behind her and grinned cheekily.

"It's a drugs bust!"

"What?' John asked, incredulous. "Seriously?"

From the gleeful look Anderson gave him and Sherlock's pout, he guessed it was serious. "Lestrade, her? I bet you wouldn't find anything - "

"John," Sherlock said warningly, but he continued.

"- Even remotely recreational - "

"John, stop."

"in here -" What Sherlock was saying finally hit John and he looked at her. "Sherlock?"

She looked uncomfortable, and he just stopped talking as she turned to Lestrade. "You can't just invade my home."

"And you can't withhold evidence, Sherlock," Lestrade countered. "I know you've got the briefcase, but where is it?"

Sherlock turned around to stomp into John's flat. Lestrade looked at John, eyebrows raised. John shrugged. "She doesn't exactly wait until you invite her to take over your flat."

Lestrade grinned understandingly and nodded, and John made a gesture into his flat. "Go ahead, please." Lestrade ducked past, and Anderson tried to follow, but John stopped him in the doorway before stepping through himself. He didn't need to risk Sherlock blowing up his flat because it was "infested with pests". It was something he could picture her doing.

"Sherlock, you've got to stop doing this." Lestrade was scolding Sherlock, who was staring at the case without responding. John came up and caught a glimpse of her face - it was her "I'm thinking" face that she made on his couch.

"Shut up, Lestrade. Anderson, turn your back, you're putting me off."

"My _face_ is?" said Anderson from the doorway.

"Turn around, Anderson," said Lestrade, reading Sherlock's expression for himself.

"OH. OH!" Sherlock turned around quickly with an epiphanous look on her face. "Rachel!"

John looked at Lestrade. He looked just as confused as John was. John shook his head. "What?"

"Don't you see? Rachel!" Sherlock pointed at the case. John and Lestrade's faces both looked blank, John knew. Sherlock frowned and stopped. "What is it like in your heads? _Rachel_ is written on the case. _Rachel_ is the key."

"Key to what?" John asked, but Sherlock was on John's phone, typing frantically. John put his hand in her pocket and rolled his eyes - it seemed he might need to get another phone.

"The password to his email. Tablet computers have GPS tracking, just like cell phones." Sherlock was pacing back and forth now, staring at the phone, and absentmindedly brushed a stray lock out of her eyes.

"Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson's voice came from Sherlock's flat behind John. He turned. "When did you open these doors?" She looked confused, then shook her head. "Never mind. Sherlock, there's someone at the door who's saying he's here to pick you up for a taxi service?"

Sherlock ignored her. Mrs. Hudson looked at John, who shrugged. The phone in Sherlock's hand beeped.

"Well, where is it?" Lestrade asked, looking almost eager. Sherlock stopped pacing.

"That doesn't -" she began to rummage through the case.

"Where is it?" Lestrade asked, and she tossed the phone at him as she continued to rummage through the briefcase. He turned the phone and looked at it, eyebrows knitting together in confusion before showing it to John.

"Baker Street," John read out loud. "Here? But -"

"It's not in the case, John," Sherlock spoke quickly. "I didn't drop it, I know I didn't, I didn't even open it until it was in the flat."

"Of course not, you've hidden it somewhere," came Anderson's snarky voice behind them. "It's in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

"Shut up!" John and Sherlock said it at the same time, and then looked at each other in surprise. Sherlock continued. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath, Anderson, do your research."

"Sherlock, about the taxi - " Mrs. Hudson tried to interject.

"STOP. STOP. EVERYBODY STOP. DON'T THINK, DON'T MOVE, DON'T BREATHE." Sherlock put her hands up in exasperation. Her phone buzzed and she turned away to look at it. Lestrade and John shared an exasperated expression.

"I - have to go - " Sherlock sounded strangled. She suddenly whirled around and grabbed a coat, pulling it on and pushing past Lestrade, John, Anderson and Mrs. Hudson to leave through her flat.

"Where are you - " Lestrade tried to ask, but she was gone. He sighed and his shoulder slumped, defeated. He turned to look at the case, and handed John his phone. "Here."

John looked at the case. "I can see it, now." Sherlock had thrown the case closed when she finished rummaging through it, and the logo was clear on the front. "If you turn it," John said, and turned the case at an angle for Lestrade, whose eyes widened. "Rachel." It took some imagination, but at the turned angle it was easily read.

"But," said Lestrade, "It's still showing the GPS as here, and we know it's not, so something must be wrong. Why did she have to leave?"

John shrugged. "You've known her longer than I do. You probably know her better."

"I've known her for five years, and no, I don't," Lestrade said frankly before turning to Anderson in the doorway. "Come on guys, let's wrap it up here." Anderson looked disappointed that he couldn't continue searching for drugs to bust Sherlock with.

John shrugged at Mrs. Hudson, who was looking at him blankly. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. She's on a case. You can probably head back to your flat now." She nodded sympathetically as John walked her to the door of his flat. "Oh, and if you bring me any food," he remembered, "Don't open the freezer."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Don't tell me she's using yours as well."

"At this point, Mrs. Hudson, I think you should just consider us one flat and figure we're splitting the rent," John said, resigned. Mrs. Hudson chuckled sweetly.

"Well, I'm just glad you two are getting along. You know, I think you're good for each other."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John replied, not sure if he should take that as a compliment or not.

He shut the door behind her and turned around. He could hear the door to Sherlock's flat closing behind the last of the "drug squad", and sighed at the quiet. He wondered where Sherlock had gone. He shrugged and settled himself on the couch, feeling a slight twinge in his leg as he did so. It seemed he was better suited to running about London than sitting and waiting for Sherlock to come back.

He wondered what had gotten Sherlock into drugs - what made her so aware of her "build", as she put it - what made her fine with leaving the flat on a moment's notice now.

The phone in his hand beeped again, and he looked at it, only half-interested.

The little GPS dot had moved. He sat straight up and looked at it. It was definitely moving.

In half a second he had thrown his jacket on again, stuffed his gun down his pants, and was bursting out of Baker Street, with a passing shout to Mrs. Hudson - "CALL LESTRADE, TELL HIM TO CALL ME!" He flagged a taxi urgently and got in. "Take a left."


	16. Two Choices

**Two Choices**

Does anyone read these author's notes? I haven't gotten a review since I posted chapter 5, and I have a very important question: Am I doing anything right? I mean, seriously, just stick a "yes" or "no" in the review box. _Halp I don't know what I'm doing_

Also I'm realizing for the future that I'm going to need a lot of names for corpses and family members and stuff. So if you want to maybe get killed or bereaved in this fic, leave your first name (no full names please, I don't want to get in trouble) in the review box or send me a PM and I will hopefully have a chance to kill you off. Yay homicide!

Without further ado...

* * *

John could feel the adrenaline start to kick in as he gave the taxi driver directions off his phone. He tried calling the police on speaker while he still gave directions, asking for Lestrade and getting told he wasn't there. He left a message, hoping Mrs. Hudson could get through.

He was far more worried than he'd expected to be for a flatmate he'd barely just met. (He caught himself thinking the word _flatmate_, then brushed it off - as he'd told Mrs. Hudson, it might as well just be one flat from the way Sherlock treated it.) He clenched his left fist and noticed it wasn't twitching. He frowned and opened and closed the hand, then glanced at the phone and gave directions to the cabbie.

He told the cabbie to stop, throwing half the cash in his wallet at the driver and getting out quickly.

Next he was paying another man what he had left in his wallet to take him across the Thames, following the dot to a dockyard. The man pulled up and John didn't wait for him to tie up the boat before jumping to the wooden flats.

He was faced with two piers, both looking exactly alike in the dark with the lights bobbing off the water. He took a deep breath and darted down one, jumping onto the first boat and looking into the windows.

No one. He felt the tension build in his chest.

He spent about five minutes combing the dock, feeling his throat tighten and blood pressure rise every time he was greeted with an empty cabin. At a certain point he started busting down the doors if he couldn't see through the windows clearly. He blinked sweat back from his eyes, wiped his forehead and continued running, remembering the way Sherlock had similarly brushed back a curl.

He hated this.

At the end of the dock was one of the bigger boats - it had a ramp to climb aboard, but it was raised and John had to leap to grab the railing. He heaved himself onto the deck, then got up, panting, to see no one in the cabin. He choked slightly and looked at the other dock desperately.

There was another boat of nearly the same size docked parallel to the one he was on, and he could see light filter through the shades. The familiar shadow of his consulting detective was cast upon the window, and he could see bits of her purple shirt through the slits in the blinds. Across from her was a man - if he squinted and tried to blur together what scraps of vision he could see through the blinds, he could barely see a table and two glasses. He couldn't see what was inside them.

Sherlock and the man raised their glasses and clinked them together, then began to raise them to drink. John's left fist tightened, and just before the glass reached Sherlock's lips, he found his pistol pointing at the man's shadow, his mind calculating the distance, the way the boats bobbed on the Thames, the safety flicking off, the light's reflection and how it would impact the aim - and then his finger squeezed the trigger. He saw the man fall, and Sherlock's glass drop from her hand.

He blinked and looked at the gun in his hand, then dropped to the deck before Sherlock could look over and see him. He took a moment when climbing off the boat to wipe his fingerprints off the rail with his jacket - he made sure he used his sleeves to cover his hands on the way down.

And then he walked quickly but casually to the other end of the docks before Sherlock could climb out of the boat's cabin.

He watched from a block away as the police cars whirled up in a blinding mass of lights. Lestrade got out, white-faced, and John was satisfied to see the way the D.I. greeted Sherlock, though Sherlock seemed to be primarily interested in showing the Inspector the body. They talked for a bit, then climbed on board the boat, then came back out onto the dock. He saw an ambulance medic drape a shock blanket over Sherlock's shoulders - she didn't seem to notice, and he chuckled. This was Sherlock's element - hardly her shock trigger. She and the D.I. continued, and John stepped closer to the Crime Scene tape that the officers had begun to string up. She noticed him halfway through talking and seemed to get distracted, then cut short talking with Lestrade to come over, with an irritated gesture to her blanket.

"Hello." She looked at him, and he looked back, rocking on his toes and then back onto his heels, realizing that he'd settled into parade rest without thinking about it.

"Hello." There was a stale silence, and he cleared his throat. "Well. Looks like a rotten business."

"You would know," she said, and it was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, well. I wouldn't know that much about it," he tried to evade.

She looked him over. "Make sure you wash any powder residue off your hands and clothes. I don't need you getting pinned for this."

John frowned and looked at her, then let half of his mouth smile quickly.

"You okay?" she asked, and his eyebrows drew together.

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?"

Her voice was quiet. "Well, you did just shoot a man."

He gave a rather stressed chuckle. "Yes. Well. He wasn't a very nice man."

"No," she said.

"Frankly, a bloody awful skipper."

Sherlock giggled. "No, he wasn't a very good captain, was he."

"Stop giggling," John said, trying to fight the smile on his own face. "We can't giggle, we're at a crime scene."

"Right," Sherlock said, pressing her lips together in a barely concealed smile. She made a gesture, and they both began to walk away.

* * *

Okay, so I've seen a lot of people in the Sherlock fandom wondering whether or not Sherlock chose the right pill.

My theory is that he was wrong. Why? Because _cinematography feels you guys_

John is faced with a decision parallel to Sherlock's when he arrives - Sherlock is faced with two pills that look exactly the same. John is faced with two buildings that look exactly the same. Both must make a choice.

John chooses the wrong building. I take this to mean that Sherlock's decision probably mirrored John's, just as their situations are parallel.

But that's just me...


	17. Mystery Mycroft

**Mystery Mycroft**

Admit it. You've been excited for Mycroft to appear as himself. _Admit it_.

Once again, thank you for reading my drabbles. Sorry this chapter is so short.

* * *

John and Sherlock walked toward the main road, still suppressing giggles, when a man walked towards them, swinging an umbrella. John stiffened. "Sherlock. That's the guy - that's - "

"I know who he is," she said smoothly, continuing to walk until they were face to face with the man. "Hello, _Mycroft_." She said the word like homophobics said "gays".

"Sherlock. Nice to see you out and about so late in the evening," the man replied smoothly.

Sherlock sighed. "What do you want, Mycroft."

"Does a big brother need a reason to check on his sister? Especially at a crime scene."

"Wait - sister?" John said, feeling suddenly lost.

"Of course." Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"So you really are just worried about her."

"Yes."

"It really is just a siblings' feud."

"Well, if you can call it that. Mummy always liked me best. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"No." John shook his head. "Ah, no."

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "Well, if you have nothing to say, Mycroft, I'm going to eat."

"I really don't think you are."

"Yes, she is," John interrupted, and both the Holmes' looked at him with eyebrows raised. He cleared his throat and shifted his feet. "Doctor's orders," he added.

"Ah," Mycroft looked half-pleased that John had bothered to say anything. "Of course. Can't argue with your doctor, Sherlock. I trust I will be seeing you again _soon_."

"And I genuinely hope not," Sherlock said, brushing past him. John followed.

"Good to see you again, John," Mycroft called after them. "Do keep an eye on my sister."

John had a sudden moment where he wondered if Mycroft had come to say _Thanks for shooting the other guy._

Sherlock looked at him, searching his face a moment. He smiled to let her know he was alright, and she grinned back. "So, there's a Chinese place I like - the manager owes me a favor."

"Oh, I bet he does," John replied, and they both grinned.


	18. One Flat

**One Flat**

WE ARE OFFICIALLY TO FLATMATE STAGE I'M SO EXCITED

Do the British have the 'first base, second base' jokes? I mean, baseball's considered primarily American - does cricket have bases? Anyway. I consider 'flatmates' to be 'first base' in this relationship...

Do ignore me and read on...

* * *

John and Sherlock tried going by the Chinese place, but it was closed. It turned out that Sherlock had two general concepts of time - "night" and "day" - and she didn't seem to comprehend that something could be open for _part_ of the night and not _all_ of it.

So they took a taxi back to Baker Street.

They reached the top of the stairs and Sherlock led the way to her flat to see Mrs. Hudson taking down the last of the letters on the door. The sweet lady looked up as they turned the corner.

"Oh, Sherlock, dear, I'm glad you're back."

"Mrs. Hudson, what are you doing?"

"Well, John mentioned that I might as well just consider it one flat from now on, and the management has been thinking about doing that for a while, actually, considering these two are so small in comparison the the other ones, but I simply hadn't got round to it. Don't worry about the rent - it'll actually go down by about 50 quid each for the both of you."

Sherlock frowned. "But why are you taking down _my_ numbers? You should take off John's, make it stay numerical."

"Oh, but yours were falling off anyway, dear, so they're easier. The mail will still come in separate boxes, so no need to change the address for anyone who might be sending you letters." Mrs. Hudson picked up the numbers and letters that were on the ground next to her and brushed past the detective. "Oh, John," she added, stopping quickly next to him, "I left you some biscuits in your fridge, if you want them."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," he said, then followed Sherlock into the flat. She was grumbling under her breath about "numerical order" and "the obvious gap between 219 and 221". He hoped she wouldn't go on about it long. He headed for the biscuits that had been left for him, and came back after putting the kettle on as well.

"So why did you go with him? I mean, you wouldn't chase after the taxi earlier." John decided to make himself comfortable on _her _sofa for once. Once seated he looked around, expecting his answer, but Sherlock had disappeared. He sighed and was about to get up when he heard a tearing noise from his flat. "Oh no," he muttered to himself, and he had just enough time to turn around before a tremendous crash, and the wall behind him burst open to Sherlock, who was grinning and panting.

"Someone must have papered over that door."

"Ye- yes, apparently," John said, slightly shaken, then decided to re-ask his question. "Ah, so - why did you go with him? Wait - " he stopped and pointed. "Was that your present to yourself?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Would you have taken it? The drink?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Now why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot. You would have, wouldn't you. You'd risk your life to prove you're smart. But you wouldn't do that when I chased the tax - oh." John stopped speaking and his left fist clenched, and he turned himself back around to compose himself before reaching for the biscuit packet and holding it up behind him. "Want a biscuit? I'll get us some tea."

Sherlock flopped on the couch as soon as he got up. "Two sugars."

"Right."


	19. From Soldier to Soldier

**From Soldier to Soldier**

I got a review with questions! I normally don't answer reviews with no questions, but I will answer questions. Guest said:_ I'm really enjoying this fic. And it's really interesting imagining Sherlock as a girl. I look forward to the future chapters. Btw is John gay is this fic? (P.S can you possibly name a dead body Isabelle Jimenez or something)_

John is either gay or bi - we don't know yet. :) I'm beginning to think he's bi with a preference for men... And I shall most definitely name a corpse Isabelle Jimenez! It's such a pretty name, I'll have to make it a pretty corpse...

Back to your regularly scheduled author's notes - Sherlock has got a backstory - we see a bit of it here, but I don't know if I'll ever fully flesh it out. It will depend on what the characters decide to say to each other, I guess. I'm starting to feel like they just kinda do what they like and I write it down.

* * *

John took longer than he needed to make the tea, mostly because he needed to think about what he'd realized.

Sherlock didn't mind death to prove she was clever, but she minded running around a dark city at night. She knew the short cuts, the alleyways, the fire escapes - that all had been obvious when she guided him to find the taxi. She, too, had run through London once.

But she didn't now. She 'wasn't built' for it. She was a woman.

John dunked a teabag into the teapot far more violently than necessary.

Something had happened, in some alley or some flat, some corner of London where most people didn't peek except for hardened men and those who chased them. Something worse than death.

Sherlock didn't fear death, so whatever had happened must be worse. John remembered the incident that had brought his sister, sobbing, to his flat, after she'd downed one too many drinks and then found out some bastard at the bar had slipped something into one. He remembered her description of being able to see and feel everything that happened, but being too paralyzed and drugged to do anything about it. He'd chosen to go into the army not long afterward. He'd found something that even he, as a doctor, couldn't heal - so perhaps he could prevent it. His left hand tightened and his jaw clenched.

"John, you've spilt your tea." Sherlock was at the door, looking pointedly at his hand. John looked down to see that his left hand had broken the handle off the mug he was holding, and his tea was now a puddle on the floor, along with the broken remnants of the mug.

"Ah, right. Sorry," he muttered, and he meant more than 'sorry about the tea', but he didn't quite know how to say it. So he shrugged and knelt down to clean up the tea before Sherlock stopped him, motioning to blood that was welling out of a cut on his palm.

"Clean that up first."

She picked up the broken mug and carelessly wiped up the tea while he washed his hand and applied a plaster. "Ah. So. Would you mind explaining to me how you figured it all out? I just followed the phone. Feel a bit - behind." He tried to speak lightly. Sherlock was making him another mug of tea.

"The case - the symbol - I guessed Rachel must be important to him, whoever she was. Perhaps a daughter? Either way, it was likely to be the password to his email system, so I tried it and asked it to track his tablet."

John nodded, pushing the first-aid box out of the way on the counter as Sherlock set his tea in front of him. "I was there for that bit, but it showed up here."

"Yes, the man was here. The taxi man."

"The one in the taxi from before?"

Sherlock shook her head. "No, he must have been in the front with the taxi driver. I should have guessed by the smell of the Thames on the dead man's clothes and briefcase - the killer was the driver of the water taxi. He picked people up, took them down the Thames to a deserted warehouse or dockyard, and -"

"Gave them a choice." John nodded. "The stupid one. But what for?"

"It seems he's got a _sponsor_." Sherlock's eyes were bright as she leaned on the table next to him, saying the word 'sponsor' like a child said 'candy' or 'Christmas'.

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" John asked, frowning.

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed.

"Who's Moriarty?"

"I have no idea."

John suspected that was a new experience to this woman who seemed to know everything.

"Right. So. How'd you guess it was the skipper?"

"I didn't order a water taxi. Neither did you."

"And the choice - it was to drink and whoever got the poison died?" John guessed, and Sherlock nodded and took a sip of her tea. "So how'd he win? He won every time."

Sherlock frowned and didn't answer - John knew this was the answer for "I'm not sure and I don't like it".

"Well," he said and took another sip of his tea, "We can figure it out in the morning."

"We?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John just grinned and finished off his tea.

"Good night."


	20. Mithridatic

**Mithridatic**

YOU GUYS NO ONE HAS TRIED MY EASTER EGG YET YOU ARE FANS OF A DETECTIVE GET YOUR EAR HATS ON

No but really I hope someone figures it out because I don't want to just give it away...

* * *

"ARSENIC!" Sherlock shouted from her kitchen. John looked up from his book as Sherlock burst into his bedroom and looked at him jubilantly, never mind that it was his _bedroom_. Luckily he was dressed. "It was arsenic, John. As old as the Borgias. Talk about ancient crime, John, that's the oldest organized crime syndicate in the book! I need a sample of his blood."

She whirled out the door, then stuck her head back in, curls in disarray. "You coming?"

John sighed and shut his book. "After this, I get to sleep."

Sherlock ignored him and disappeared from the doorway.

Groaning, John marked his page in the book, sat up, swung his legs off the side of the bed and rubbed his temples. Sherlock had woken him in the middle of the night after having decided waiting till morning was too long for her patience and had dragged him back to the crime scene. He had ended up eating the rest of his biscuits in the taxi at three in the morning, then following Sherlock and standing guard as she snuck back into the crime scene (quite illegally, John guessed, not that Lestrade would ever call her on it) so she could take samples of the wood flooring where the two drinks had spilt. The rest of the night she'd spent turning her kitchen into a makeshift lab so she could test the slivers of wood she had brought home. Every time he'd tried to sleep, she'd accidentally bust a beaker or burn herself on a Bunsen burner or prick herself with something that may or may not be poisoned. Finally he'd told her that he was just going to stay up and read his book. It had been much quieter since then, but he was starting to feel the lack of sleep burning behind his eyelids.

Sherlock's head peeked through the doorway and he looked up again. "Taxi's here," she said, and ducked back out. He stood and grabbed his book, hoping he wasn't expected to dissect cadavers on no sleep.

In the taxi, he attempted to read his book, but Sherlock kept up a running commentary on the buildings they passed, somehow figuring that the people in those two flats were arguing and the man crossing the street was in trouble with his wife. John finally set the book aside and decided to ask about something he actually wanted to hear about.

"Why do you need a blood sample?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. "I suspect that he may have been mithridatic."

"Immune to poison?" A quick nod from Sherlock told John his guess was correct. "Why the planning? I mean, what did he use the money from his sponsor _for? _There are easier ways to make money than _serial_ _killer_."

"Love," Sherlock said shortly, and the word sounded foreign on her lips. "The money went to his kids - he was already fatally ill."

"And they say poison is a woman's weapon," John mused. He could feel Sherlock tense next to him, and he shrugged. "Shows how much they know." He gave the detective a quick smile, and the corner of her mouth lifted for a split second. John knew it was her equivalent of exhaustive laughter.

* * *

Guys, Mithridatism is brilliant. It only works with certain drugs, but basically you ingest them in small quantities until your body can handle them, thus making you immune to the poison. (As I said, it doesn't work with everything, so please don't go eating poison...)

But the best part of Mithridatism is why it's called Mithridatism. It's named after Mithridates VI, who was so afraid of being poisoned that he ingested small amounts to make him immune, but then when his country got invaded, he tried to commit suicide by poison. And failed miserably. His servant had to kill him with a sword cause the poison didn't work. So is that a case of failure or success?


	21. Molly

**Molly**

Guys, I honestly teared up at your reviews - thank you so much for the encouragement! _SO MUCH_.

As for the couple of questions asking if there would be romance between John and Sherlock. At this point, I'm not giving anything away - you'll have to read it for yourself.

* * *

When they got to the lab, a woman was waiting, looking flushed and hurried. Her eyes latched onto Sherlock as soon as she saw them approaching, then slipped to John. The smile of greeting that had been on her face slipped a little, and John understood with sympathy, and fell back a bit from Sherlock's side.

"Molly," Sherlock said in greeting. "Do you still have him?"

"Oh!" Molly looked as though she was just barely keeping up with the way Sherlock could control a conversation. "Yes, I - um, I got him ready."

"Good." Sherlock brushed past her into the doors of the morgue, and John noted how Molly's breathing hitched. He waited a moment for her to calm down from the torrent that was Sherlock, then held out a hand.

"Hello - I'm John."

"Molly," she replied, shaking his hand - her grip was light but not limp. "Um, I'm just a lab assistant here - "

"A lab assistant who will get out of bed in the middle of the night to assist Sherlock Holmes. You're a bloody saint." John didn't mince words - he doubted Sherlock ever gave this woman the credit she deserved.

Molly gave a small giggle. "Well, I do what I can." The giggle faded. "So..." John could see the question begging to be asked, and he shrugged as he answered.

"Just the neighbor. Well, flatmate, I guess, she just knocked in a door between the flats. I'm new to all this - " he gestured around, hoping Molly understood - "but as I'm a doctor, Sherlock seems to find me - useful. So far."

Molly seemed to relax at this. "Well, I suppose this isn't so odd to you, then."

"Frankly calming after the Army," he grinned back at her, and she smiled back tentatively.

"MOLLY!" came a shout from the morgue, and John followed Molly through the swinging doors.

"Yes?" Molly asked, and John noted with pity that the woman's virtues were wasted on Sherlock.

"I may need to use the lab. Also can you get me syringes? At least twenty."

"Twenty?" John couldn't help asking.

Sherlock looked up quickly as she whipped a hair tie off her wrist and tied up her hair in a loose ponytail. John could hear Molly catch her breath as Sherlock's neck was exposed. Damn. The poor woman really had it bad.

"There isn't often the chance to study the physiology of a man who may be mithridatic to arsenic!" Sherlock pointed out. "I'll keep the extras in the freezer."

"Your freezer, I hope," John stated, but Sherlock shook her head.

"Half in yours. That way if I lose power some are preserved."

John shook his head. "Sherlock, our flats are connected, there's no way I'm going to keep power when you're out."

"All the same, better to be safe."

"Better to invade my kitchen, you mean," John corrected her, and noticed Molly had left. He plopped himself in a stool and on impulse twirled himself around once before stopping himself with a hand on the table and pulling his book back out.

"You didn't have to shoot him in the heart." Sherlock interrupted him halfway through his first paragraph.

"I didn't."

"You did!"

John shrugged - he was not going to admit to shooting someone when Molly could walk in at any second. "Either way, that isn't the heart. That's the middle lobe of the right lung."

Sherlock ignored him. John counted that as a win for him, for once, and then heard Molly push her way through the door with her hip.

"Ah, right. Let me help with that - " He took some of the syringes from her hands, plastic packaging rustling.

"Sorry," she murmured. "There weren't any spare boxes. I thought of using a specimen bag but the head doctor gets mad when they go missing."

"I _needed_ them," Sherlock muttered as John set down his handfuls of specimens on a table next to her.

"_It was three boxes of a thousand each,_" Molly murmured conspiratorially to John, who grinned.

"_What for_?" he whispered loudly back.

"_I think she was testing acids and bases. Kept burning through them_," was the answer, and John chuckled, imagining Sherlock rooting through a kitchen turned into a lab that was overfilled with lab bags, swearing as the test tube she was using began to melt and throwing it into a bag, and then another bag, and then another bag. He wondered if part of Sherlock's fridge was melted through.

"_Ah. Right_," he replied, then the urge to yawn overtook him and he didn't say anything for a moment.

"Do you want me to get you a coffee?" Molly offered.

"Black, two sugars, thank you Molly," Sherlock replied to the question not asked of her.

"Ah, yes. Right," Molly stuttered out, and John smiled at her.

"I'll come along," he offered. "I could use one myself."

"Oh! Yes, if you like." Molly led the way out, and John followed. He could almost hear Sherlock's pout behind him.


	22. Bruises

**Bruises **

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I JUST REALIZED I'M SUCH AN IDIOT AMERICAN OH GOSH IT'S WONDERFUL

WHEN I WAS TALKING ABOUT JOHN PACKING HIS GUN IN HIS PANTS I MEANT HIS TROUSERS

BECAUSE AMERICANS CALL BRITISH PANTS "BOXERS" OR "BRIEFS"

"PANTS" ARE TROUSERS HERE

BUT YOU WERE ALL IMAGINING HIM SHOVING HIS GUN DOWN HIS UNDERWEAR

AFDBNIEOW:RJKSLBV:NN I CAN'T I'M CRYING

ANyway - as for this chapter -

I am a rather introverted person, and that fact has been exacerbated by the fact that I have very recently moved. Thus, I have no friends aside from husband, and he is not British, and I have no Brit-picker or even editor (besides myself) for this fic.

Thus, I apologize again for any mistakes made in this fic. Let me know so I can fix stuff please?

* * *

When John and Molly came back, Sherlock was using a riding crop. John had to blink a few times before actually comprehending what was happening was not some sleep-deprived delirium. Molly just sighed.

"Sherlock, it's nearly six," he complained, but the detective was busy.

"I want to see how he bruises. Arsenic can damage the blood vessels." Sherlock stepped back, panting, a stray curl loose from her ponytail and dangling in front of her eyes.

"Ah. Right. Where did you get the riding crop?" he wondered aloud.

"She keeps one here," Molly piped up. John had a feeling she might be a little proud to know something John didn't. Also he wondered how often Sherlock went about beating dead corpses. If that didn't count as desecration, he didn't know what would.

"Well, can you please hurry and get what you need so I can go home?" He sat down and Molly brought a coffee over to Sherlock, which she set carefully near the syringes.

"Really, John, what about the flat is so interesting?" the detective asked, preoccupied with her first syringe.

"My bed. I want to go to sleep. I haven't slept since..." John tried to do the math in his head, but was too tired and took a sip of his coffee. "I don't know."

Molly shared an understanding glance with the frazzled doctor, and he gave her a faint smile in return. It was nice to have _someone_ to commiserate with, even if they didn't quite understand the feeling of having one's neighbor - no, _flatmate_ - put a head in their freezer. She sat down next to him and they watched Sherlock draw blood from the corpse.

"You said you're a doctor?" she asked after a bit, politely.

John nodded. The caffeine was waking him up, but it gave him a bit of the jitters, which he didn't like. "Trained here at Bart's, actually."

"And then the army. Must have been a bit wild for you," she smiled and took a sip of her coffee.

"Yes, well. I got Sherlock as my neighbor once I got out of hospital," he said. "It hasn't really calmed things down." _Thank heavens for Sherlock Holmes_.

"Out of hospital?" Molly said, eyes wide. "So you got..." she stopped. John smiled ruefully.

"My shoulder. It's fine, now, I, ah, just had to, you know, re-train it a bit."

"Oh. Sorry. Shouldn't have brought it up." Molly was desperately backtracking now.

"No, no, don't worry about it. All over now."

Silence in the lab for a moment, until Sherlock swore because she couldn't find an easy draw.

"So have you got a job then?" Molly asked after a bit.

"Ah, no." John looked down at his coffee. "Still looking for the time being."

"Oh. Well, I can look around for you," Molly offered. "You get to know people - working here - what with the labs - not the dead ones, you know - " She stopped, looking flushed and embarrassed, and trying not to give the wrong impression. John smiled - smiling was easy around Molly, she was so _open_, so easy to read. _Unlike a certain private detective_.

"Well, if you see anyone who could use a bit of help, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know."

"Yes," Molly agreed, looking relieved to not have to explain herself further. A moment later the two had exchanged contact details and were talking easily about the changes to Bart's since John had studied there.

A figure loomed over them and John looked up from where he was sitting to see Sherlock, hands full of syringes. "Here, take some of these, John. Thank you, Molly, you've been a huge help."

"Ah - yes - of course - whenever you need anything - " John could see all the work he'd done to calm the woman was going to pieces.

"You don't look bad for half seven in the morning," Sherlock added to her thanks as an afterthought, and John raised an eyebrow as poor Molly was reduced to a stuttering mess. Sherlock nodded a goodbye to her, and swept out the door, and John gave Molly a (hopefully) comforting smile before leaving after her, ten syringes crammed into one hand and coffee mug in another.


	23. Burning

**Burning**

I just really like writing about domestic Sherlock, I mean seriously, she's so dysfunctional it's wonderful.

* * *

About an hour after John got home, even the caffeine couldn't keep him up, and he collapsed into bed with his clothes on. Sherlock was still tinkering in the 'lab' - which is what John now called her kitchen, as he had sworn never to let either of them make any food in there ever again, especially now that there was a chance it had arsenic-tainted blood all over everything.

He turned over once and vaguely heard some swearing from the other room, but it wasn't enough to fully wake him so his subconsious ignored it and went back to dreaming.

When he woke, the sun coming through his skylight told him it was probably past three in the afternoon. He swore and got up, taking a quick shower and changing before coming out into the sitting room, rubbing his damp hair with a towel before stopping.

Sherlock was asleep on his couch, cuddling a fire extinguisher with foam encrusted around the nozzle. John groaned, wondering what she'd managed to set on fire while he was asleep, then noticing the book that was open on the floor. He picked it up. "A Practical Textbook to Infection, Immunity, and Specific Therapy, with Special Reference to Immunologic Technic," he read the title under his breath. "Reading up on poison defense systems, were you?" He looked around and tore a piece off the newspaper, marking her spot, then went back to his room and grabbed a blanket, draping it over her a moment later.

Flatmate taken care of, John decided to find out what she'd managed to burn. After a thurough inspection of his flat, he decided his kitchen was intact and the sitting room showed no signs of destruction, so he took a deep breath and opened the main door to enter Sherlock's side.

The corrosive smell of burning hit his nose immeadietly, along with a blast of cold air. She'd opened the skylights, he noted. Smart, to let out the smoke. He wondered why a smoke detector hadn't woken him, then realized she'd probably never changed the batteries.

But the main thing he noticed was that her sofa was now a pile of twisted black ruins. Their was a large scorch mark on the floor, where foam left from the fire extinguisher was clumped. John groaned and rubbed his temples, then stepped back into his side of the flat and closed the door. It was Sherlock's business. He was not in charge of fixing that, nor explaining it to Mrs. Hudson. He laughed a quick, almost hysteric sort of giggle. "Rest up, Captain Watson, you need to get your health back. I'm certain it'll be much calmer back in Britain. Barring the crazy flatmate that sets the sofa on fire," he muttered to himself, doing a rather good impression of one of his old mates. A pang of nostagia struck him, and his leg almost buckled, but he leaned against the wall quickly, clenching his fists and taking a deep breath before deciding to get himself breakfast. _Enjoy your experiments, Ms. Holmes, I'm certain it will be nice to have a place of your own, barring the crazy flatmate with PTSD_, he thought on his way to the kitchen, doing a rather good impression of Sgt. Donovan in his head.


	24. Shopping

**Shopping**

Note from my outline/scratches for this fic: "When John is sulky, he makes tea and goes to his room. When he's bored, he makes tea and watches Sherlock work. When mad, he makes tea, when really mad, makes tea with rum and yells a lot."

A true Brit at heart, is John.

* * *

John entered his kitchen to find that he had no milk.

This was problematic, one, because he needed milk for his tea, and two, because he'd been planning on having cereal for breakfast. It turned out he was out of that, too, though, so now it seemed he really did have to go shopping.

He hated shopping - he didn't have much left over after his rent on most days, and shopping made that fact painfully clear. He remembered Molly saying that she would try to find him some contacts, and hoped it would happen quickly, because he really did need a job. He was lucky Sherlock had paid for all the taxis so far, except for the one when John had been following a GPS to save her life. He should probably brush up his CV.

But for now he had to pull on his jacket and march the couple of blocks to the convenience store. He bought himself some bacon while he was at it, resolving to keep it tightly cling-wrapped and away from any human body parts. Everything went well until he got to the bloody chip and pin machine, which refused to scan his milk. After about four tries and help from an employee, he finally got it into the bloody computer, but it then refused to scan his card. He frowned. He hadn't had _that_ little in his bank account... Had he? He tried again.

"Card not authorized. Please try again."

"Yes, alright, do you think you could keep your voice down?"

If anything, it only seemed to get louder. "CARD NOT AUTHORIZED. **PLEASE TRY AGAIN.**"

"YES, ALRIGHT, JUST -" He stopped, mid-tirade, to notice the man behind him in line giving him a look. He groaned. "Just, just, yeah, you use that," he muttered, and left the machine with the food, resigning himself to hunger and embarrassment, stomping his way home and up the stairs to 221B with both hands clenched. Sherlock looked up from where she was still lying on the sofa, though now she was awake, reading her book.

"I thought went out to do the shop," she asked, taking in the clenched jaw and angry eyes. John didn't bother asking her how she knew, just replied.

"Yeah, I didn't do the shop." He shifted his weight, still angry, but now even more embarrassed.

"Why not?" Sherlock looked confused. John raised his voice.

"Because I had a _row_ in the _shop_ with a _chip and pin machine_."

"You had a row with a machine?" Sherlock tilted her head and frowned.

"Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got any cash?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched up in an almost-smile and she nodded toward her coat, which was still left on his chair from when they'd come in the night before. "Take my card."

John rummaged through the pockets of the coat to find her wallet and then a card before clearing his throat, still slightly angry. "You could go yourself, you know. I've never once seen you go out to do the shop. And you're still _lying_ there, just like you were when I left. Have you even moved?"

A slight _clink_ came from behind him, and he turned to see Sherlock shifting her weight slightly. He wondered where the noise had come from, but was distracted by a large scratch on the wooden coffee table. He ran a finger over it and shook his head. Probably from her dragging the fire extinguisher across it the night before. She had no respect for private property, that was for certain. He decided to just leave and go get the shop.

Seeing as he was using Sherlock's card, he decided to get more than he actually needed, as rent for a night on his couch. This turned out to backfire on him, as he then had to carry it all home, and struggle up the stairs with his arms full. He pushed open his door with a shoulder. Sherlock was on a laptop. "Don't mind me, I'm doing fine," he grumped, and Sherlock took no notice of him, as he'd expected. He dumped the bags on the counter and came out to ask Sherlock if she wanted any tea when he noticed. "Is that my computer?"

"Obviously," she replied. _No regard for private property_.

"It's _password protected_," he objected.

"It wasn't hard to guess, John, you're hardly Fort Knox - "

"Yes, I see, thank you, _give me that_," and John took it back, hoping she hadn't gone through his internet history and seen how utterly banally boring his blog was.


	25. The Bank

**The Bank**

Sorry, my dear readers, I had to take a break. I've been pumping out at least 1500 words or so a day since I started this fic and was starting to burn myself out, and I didn't want to burn myself out, cause if I stopped writing completely, it would disappoint you, my readers...

You ever realize that the people online are _real people_ with _real lives_? You all have _real lives_.

Augh. Thank you for reading this and finding time for it in the middle of your life - also anytime anyone needs to just chat my PM box is open... I just seriously love my readers, kay?

* * *

"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock said suddenly, getting up and grabbing her coat, throwing John's coat at him on her way out the door.

"Sherlock - what - " he barely had time to say, but she was out the door, and John ran to put the milk in the fridge before ducking into his own jacket and following her.

The taxi ride was spent in silence - John was still mad and Sherlock was thinking. They got out at a rather large glass building, and Sherlock led the way confidently as John looked around, wide-eyed - when Sherlock had said 'bank' he had thought something along the lines of a small, average-looking establishment - not this arty building of glass and steel, arching far into the sky with its trading signs and polished marble.

"Sherlock, why are we - " he stopped because Sherlock wasn't listening - she was walking up to the front desk and confidently proclaiming her name to a rather confused secretary, who finally seemed to figure out what had been said and pointed her the right direction. John hurried to catch up - Sherlock had a long stride, as if her brain couldn't see any point in wasting any energy in the act of walking.

They found themselves in a waiting room, sitting for a minute while the PA ducked her head in to ask someone if he was busy, then getting up again when she came back and gestured them in.

"Sebastian," was all Sherlock said in greeting.

"Sherlock," a man said, overly jovial, clasping Sherlock's hand. "How long's it been? Seems years."

His eyes glanced up at John, and Sherlock made the introductions. "This is my friend, John Watson."

The man raised his eyebrows. "Friend?"

"Colleague," John offered, and realized that he very much disliked this man.

"Take a seat," the man offered, then looked up as the door opened and the PA appeared. "Anything you'd like? Water? Coffee?"

"No, thank you."

The PA disappeared from the doorway, and Sebastian made himself comfortable.

"You're doing well," Sherlock said, and John was surprised at the attempt at small talk - Sherlock never made small talk - had they come to the bank to pay a visit to an old friend? Because this - this was not a friendly atmosphere.

"Yes, well, all right."

"You've got some international accounts - flying all the way around the world twice in a month?" Sherlock asked. Sebastian leaned back farther and studied her, then laughed.

"Oh. Right. You're doing that _thing_." He motioned to her and John tensed. He was beginning to understand a little of Sherlock's overbearing attitude - this man would make any man want to have the attitude of a steamroller, simply for the satisfaction of running him over.

Sebastian looked at John as if he needed to explain. "We were at uni together. She could do this _thing_ - " once again said with the tone homophobics used when they said 'bi' - "She could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"I know," John said, not unkindly - barely. "I've seen her do it." _And I don't mind, because I have nothing to hide_, he tried to insinuate. Sebastian missed it.

"Put the wind up everyone. We hated her. She'd come down to mess hall and know who you'd been shagging the previous night," Sebastian chuckled. "Witchcraft, we called it."

"I simply observed," Sherlock put in, and John could hear the hurt - but Sherlock probably wasn't, he probably imagined it - _don't give her feelings she doesn't have, John, she won't thank you for it_.

"All right, then, enlighten me," Sebastian said, challenge in his voice. "Two trips in a month - how did you know. Sauce on my tie, stain on my shoes that comes from a certain type of dirt in Brooklyn, I suppose."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John had to fight a grin, as he knew that look. "I was chatting with your secretary. She told me."

Sebastian was silent for a moment, and John relished it. But the insufferable man pulled himself together. "I'm glad you came. We've had a break-in."


	26. Blinded

**Blinded**

All my notes for scenes with Sebastian have "Also Sebastian's a d***wad" written at some point. Nice to know I've really worked on rounding out this character.

* * *

Sebastian led them through the crowded trading room - screens on all sides, cubicles, columns, people in suits and pencil skirts. John felt underdressed for a moment, then consoled himself by imagining all the posh people around him drunk out of their minds at a pub. It was a reassuring image.

They approached a corner office, as Sebastian explained, "The office of the former chairman. He died a few years back, but the office has been left as a sort of... memorial." He opened the door and Sherlock entered first, obscuring John's view for a moment, and then he entered too and could look around.

It was an average rich man's office, with the fancy wood desk and overly expensive pen holder and statue for no reason. And a large picture of the former occupant of the office - only it wasn't quite so fancy anymore, not with the stripe of yellow paint dripping over his face. Blinded.

John didn't like it. He couldn't see. His eyes were covered, _and his patient was bleeding out and where were they going and __**Please God Let Me Live**_**. **

John snapped his eyes away from the picture, looking instead at the scribbles in yellow paint next to it - a figure-eight-like scribble with a line over it. He let his jaw unclench and forced himself to let his hands unclench, realizing Sherlock and Sebastian were heading back across the trade floor. He followed.

When he entered Sebastian's office again, Sebastian was at his desk, opening the CCTV footage for Sherlock to see. He hit a button. The chairman's office. No paint. He hit forward - paint on the wall. "Sixty seconds apart. So last night, someone got in, splashed some paint around, then left within a minute."

"What are the entrances to that room?" Sherlock asked brusquely.

"Well, that's where it gets interesting." Sebastian clicked on another file and a sheet popped up with dates, times, locations. "This logs every door in the place - every cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night," Sherlock surmised. Sebastian sighed.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it, and we'll pay you. Five figures," Sebastian pulled a cheque out of his pocket. "This is an advance."

Sherlock's look of disdain could have melted metal. "I don't need an _incentive_, Sebastian." The ice in her voice was enough to lower the temperature of the room by at least three degrees. She stalked out with her hands in her coat pockets.

John cleared his throat. Looked at the cheque. Looked at the door where Sherlock had gone. "Ah. Um. She's joking, of course." It sounded flat, even to his own ears. "I'll just take that for her, shall I?" He held out his hand and Sebastian gave the cheque to him with a frown. _Wondering what we are. Colleagues. Friends. I wonder what he'd think if I told him we were flatmates. Someone actually can bear to live with Sherlock Holmes_.

He asked where the toilet was, and Sebastian gave him a guest pass to open the door. It seemed you really did have to swipe to enter any of the doors here. He came back to the office when he was done, giving the pass back to Sebastian, and Sherlock was there.

"Let's go," she said, and led the way out to the lobby.


	27. Pillars and Screens

**Pillars and Screens**

...I'm sorry. There's no way to describe Sherlock's bouncy head dance in writing that does it justice. So I didn't bother trying...

* * *

"Need to look somewhere else?" John asked. Sherlock shook her head.

"Got everything I need."

"Two times around the world in a month," John said, taking his first opportunity to ask the question he'd been dying to ask. "You didn't ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him."

Sherlock's mouth twitched, and John knew she was trying not to smile.

"How did you know?"

"His watch. Time was right but the date was wrong. Two days off. He's changed the time but not the date." Sherlock was surprisingly forthcoming with the answer.

"But in the month?" John pressed.

"New watch. That model only came out this month."

"Brilliant."

Sherlock actually did smile, now.

"So what... did you get?" John asked, feeling stupid, trying not to feel too guilty about the cheque in his pocket, and Sherlock gave him that look that said, _You are unbearably dense_. He groaned. "I was in the loo, Sherlock, give me a break. What information did you get."

"Pillars, John," Sherlock said, as if that explained everything, and John gave her a glance that hopefully said, _That does not explain everything_. Sherlock sighed. "There were very few places in that office from which that message could be seen. The pillars and screens blocked most of it. There can't be that many "Isabelle Jimenez"s in the phone book." She held up a placard between two fingers and John grinned involuntarily, barely stopping himself from saying, "Brilliant," remembering Sherlock's comment about saying stuff out loud.

Sherlock flagged down a taxi with one long arm, and they got in. It didn't take Sherlock long to look up the name in an online White Pages, and from there give the cabbie an address. It was scary, John felt, how no one was private these days. He wondered briefly how previous detectives worked without the internet. Census records, probably.

When they got to their destination, no one answered the door. John looked at Sherlock, and she looked back at John. He shrugged. "Maybe she's out?"

Sherlock noticed a group of mailboxes over to the side, all labelled by apartment and name. There was a paper taped onto one. "Lonnie Shwitz," she said. "New tenant."

"Maybe he's just replacing the label? May have fallen off." John offered. He knew he was probably wrong, but he still wanted to try to be right. Sherlock gave him a raised eyebrow.

"No one ever does that. They know their mailbox by then." She walked over to the doorbell system, ringing Lonnie's apartment.

"He-hello?" Lonnie sounded elderly. John watched in fascination as Sherlock's whole facial expression and voice changed. He'd have thought she was too proud to act stupid, but it seemed Sherlock's pride mainly revolved around getting what she wanted.

"Hello? You're my new neighbor, yeah? I'm Isabelle! I live right below you!" Sherlock said it all quickly, in a high-pitched, bubbly tone of voice that uncomfortably reminded John of a couple of his mates' uni girlfriends - the bleached-blonde ones with fake tans and too much lipstick. Sherlock was continuing quickly. "Anyway, I'm soooo sorry, I like totally spaced, I was going out with a mate, yeah? So I, like, completely forgot my keys in my flat."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that..." the old man said shakily, and Sherlock nodded eagerly, though John could have sworn he saw a trace of impatience in her eyes.

"So, anyway, I was just wondering if you could, like, just buzz me in, and I'll just grab my keys, you know, since I don't want to bother the super, I mean, I've already asked him to open the door twice this month, though it wasn't my fault, you know, it just kind of happens, like, they just disappear!" She was terribly convincing. John almost had trouble keeping a straight face.

"Yes, of course, dear, here you go..." the shaky voice said, and the door near them buzzed. John moved over to hold it open as Sherlock kept talking.

"Thanks, you know, you're like _such_ a dear. Also, like, mind if we use your balcony?"

"...what?"


	28. Suicide

**Suicide**

Trigger warning: Suicide

I left this scene pretty much exactly the same except for the gender of the body. I like switching things up, as you've probably noticed - mailboxes instead of doorbells, water skippers and not cabbies, logos not scratched messages in the floor - but I feel this is where John gets to see what he could have left his life as - just another body, in another flat, with another gun.

Whom do you suppose it worries more?

* * *

Sherlock was in the flat. John was not.

John did not like this.

He supposed he should have expected it after she shimmied off the old man's balcony in order to drop down to Isabelle's balcony. John hadn't been trusted by the old man, who seemed to think he was going to be a bad influence on the sweet and guiless girl Sherlock was shamming to be. John had rolled his eyes and gone down a floor, hoping Sherlock would let him in from the inside.

But now he was standing here, knocking on the door. "Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Are you going to let me in?"

A bit of bumping around.

"Any time, now, would be good."

Sherlock threw open the door. "Dead body."

John's eyes widened at her sudden appearance more than at the statement of a corpse. "I've come to expect that around you. I'm not sure that's healthy." He frowned.

"I've already texted Scotland Yard. Come on in, give me your evaluation of the body."

The girl was lying on her bed, gun in hand, shot in the head. John caught his breath, suddenly seeing himself lying there, seeing his pistol instead of hers, seeing his eyes lifeless and dead.

Is that what he would have been, before Sherlock? It was likely.

Another body in a flat. Part of his mind almost laughed, in a 'panic attack in hysterics' sort of way - Sherlock would have been thrilled, a death so near.

And then disappointed, because it wouldn't have been interesting enough to capture her attention for more than an hour. He resolved that if he died of anything other than old age, he was going to make it interesting, if not for him then for her.

Another part of his mind went into a quiet sort of vacancy. He realized he didn't want to become this - another statistic. Another person who simply didn't have a reason to continue, or had too many reasons not to keep going. There must have been something. She'd been a banker, she'd been smart - he wished he could shake her awake and tell her that her future would be worth it. And since he couldn't wake her up to that reality, he did it to himself, reminding himself - he was a doctor, he wasn't completely stupid, even by his crazy flatmate's standards, and his future - whatever he'd have of it, working with Sherlock - would be worth it...

The final part of his brain was in medical mode, and once the first two parts had stopped analyzing the psychology of the situation as it applied to John, he was able to look up at Sherlock.

"Fatal shot to the head at close quarters - there's soot around the wound that indicates that much. Died pretty much instantly."

Sherlock was only half engaged, rifling through a small suitcase to the side with her smart black-leather gloves on. John pursed his lips, realizing why she wore gloves all the time - preparation for crime scenes. He clenched his fists as he straightened - his natural reaction to feeling unprepared.

"Enough clothes in that suitcase for a couple of nights. She had the Hong Kong accounts - looks like she'd just gotten back from a trip. Care to look?"

John shook his head, frowning.

"Problem?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Sherlock, I don't want to root around in anyone's dirty laundry, and I'd like to give her some privacy if there are - ah - undergarments in there." John tried to be tactful at the end, but he could feel himself blushing as Sherlock didn't seem to care if John saw any dead person's bras and panties.

To be fair, she'd probably root around in a male victim's boxers without a moment of hesitation if she thought there would be evidence, John had to concede.

"Ah, you're late," Sherlock said, spinning around as a noise came from the door, and John looked up to see the police approaching.


	29. The Dimmest DI Dimmock

**The Dimmest DI Dimmock**

So I just almost screamed like a banshee when I saw my visitors today. Ima cry now... HERE HAVE A CHAPTER DON'T MIND MY SNIFFLES

* * *

"What are you doing?" Oh, this wasn't good. A man who wasn't Lestrade walked forward, and he didn't look happy. John looked at Sherlock, but she merely looked annoyed.

"I called Lestrade, Sergeant," she said, and the man grimaced at her.

"Yes, but he's busy. I've been put on the case. And it's Detective Inspector, actually. Dimmock." He put his hands on his hips. "And I'd appreciate it if you stopped messing with the evidence."

Sherlock waved her gloved hands at him and rolled her eyes, going to stand next to John. For once she was quiet, but this didn't make John happy; he knew it was simply the calm before the storm. It was a long calm, though - she managed to bite her tongue for a whole thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds, which he believed was a record as far as he'd known her. John himself broke the dam, albeit accidentally.

Dimmock strode up to them. "Looks like suicide."

John nodded. "It does seem like the only thing that fits all the facts."

"WRONG." The word burst out of Sherlock so fast, John knew she'd been waiting to say it for quite some time. "Wrong. It only covers some of the facts, and those the least important."

"Now, I know Lestrade said you enjoy this, but if you're making stuff up -" Dimmock started, and even John knew he'd gone wrong there.

"She didn't commit suicide, she was murdered," Sherlock spat out.

"Prove it," Dimmock threw back, and John had to force himself to hold back an audible groan of _No, no, don't do that_.

Sherlock proved it. "Left handed. Left handed sockets more generally used. Pen on left side of the paper. Butter on right side of the blade because she buttered things with her left. Book on the left hand side of the coffee table. She even has the special _scissors_!"

Dimmock looked like he'd just gotten hit with a bucket of cold water.

"Bullet's on the right side of the head - kind of hard to use one's left hand to shoot one in the _right_ side of the head, eh? It requires quite a bit of contortion." Sherlock demonstrated, a crazed dance as she pointed her finger up to different sides of her curls.

"The gun?" Dimmock managed to choke out. John was surprised he could even talk, with the look on his face.

"She was expecting this." Sherlock gestured to the room dramatically. "She was prepared."

"But where would her bullet have -"

Sherlock answered the question before he finished. "Out the open window."

Dimmock scoffed. "Now you don't expect me to believe that -"

"Check the bullet in her head against the ballistics from her gun. It didn't come from it." Sherlock's tone was definite. "Come on, John. I have to inform Sebastian one of his bankers is indisposed."

John followed, wondering if Dimmock's breathing would go down, and if there were any paramedics to help him if he started going into shock.

"It wasn't suicide, John." Sherlock whirled to look at him, and he nodded in agreement, but she kept eye contact, saying it seriously, not maniacally proving a point as she had in Jimenez's flat. "She didn't commit suicide. She wasn't alone."

John wondered if this was a consulting detective's version of comfort - if Sherlock had managed to deduce feelings as well as habits - but she was striding away now, and he had to catch up to the sweeping hem of her coat.


	30. New Job

**New Job**

Honestly, I can't picture the male version of Sarah being anything but hott with two t's, so... picture a middle-aged underwear model. Yep. That's about right.

* * *

Trying to tell Sebastian that his banker was murdered went over badly. John had never wanted to punch the man as much as he did when Sebastian scoffed off Sherlock's warnings of murder due to a text from his boss saying that the police had passed it off as a suicide. When Sherlock realized that Dimmock wasn't taking it seriously - still - John thought she might punch Dimmock.

They went back to Baker Street - Sherlock had apparently decided that if the police didn't want her help, she wasn't going to give them any of her effort, and that Sebastian wasn't worthy of her evening either. Instead she spent the evening screeching on a cello she'd brought into John's living room, since her sofa was reduced to a pile of ashes. John spend his evening sweeping said ashes into the rubbish.

He went down to Mrs. Hudson's flat to throw the bag out and was coming inside when the sweet lady herself greeted him.

"John, dear! Good I caught you! You've got a visitor." And the way she gestured to the hallway near the front door and said 'visitor', it was obviously someone important or very good looking.

It turned out to be the latter, as it was a very handsome gentleman who looked up when John entered. "Ah, hello," he said, standing up. "You must be Dr. Watson."

"Please, call me John," John replied, shaking the hand offered to him. "I'd invite you upstairs, but - ah - I'm afraid it's rather a mess."

Mrs. Hudson popped her head round the corner as discreetly as she could, despite the "I've been eavesdropping" expression all over her face. "Oh, use my sitting room, dear, I'm popping out to do the shopping." She gestured John and the man in, and then left hurriedly, exchanging what was meant to be a meaningful glance with John. John sighed as she left and sat in a chair, offering one to the gentleman at the same time.

"Sorry, she's a dear, she really is, but sometimes she gets things into her head," he tried to brush it off without eliminating the future possibility.

The man just chuckled lightly. "It's no problem, but I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Simon, I run the clinic just down from the hospital lab? Anyway, I was picking up a couple reports when Molly mentioned she had a friend who might need a job."

John's eyes widened in understanding, then worry. With Sherlock dragging him around, he hadn't thought about how hard it would be to keep a job, and to lose one would just be - he forced himself to answer. "Ah, yes, right, well. I have been looking for one, yes."

"Molly mentioned your credentials. Army surgeon, studied at Bart's - it might be a bit mundane for you, but we could use the help. Just whenever you can - she said you volunteer?" When John looked confused, Simon continued. "She said you do examinations for the police... or something."

John let a small smile spread over his face. "Yes, yes, I do - it can get a bit crazy at times..." He was going to give Molly the biggest gift basket of chocolate she'd ever seen in her life. Two gift baskets. And a kiss. "They tend to put me on call, you know," he added, backing up her story.

Simon's eyes crinkled attractively as he smiled back. "I suppose they would. Anyway, it's not the best pay grade, but we'd be willing to work with that, and if you want it..."

"Yes." It came out a bit quickly, and John stopped himself before continuing. "It sounds perfect."

"Great," Simon replied. "Well, if you want to come in on Monday?"

"Brilliant."

Both men sat on their respective seats, not moving, staring at each other, until John realized and looked away, blushing. "Ah, right, well."

"Right," echoed Simon, and both men stood up, shaking hands before John showed Simon back to the door. He turned around to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the hallway behind him, frowning.

"Oh, John," was all she said, and he shrugged.

"How'd you get back in?"

"Came in the back way, into the bedroom," she twittered, laughingly, before sobering. "Oh, John, and he was so handsome, too."

John just smiled as she turned back into her flat, deflated, and he started back up the stairs, trying to decide what sort of gift baskets to get Molly.

* * *

In celebration for reaching my 30th chapter, I'm giving people the easter egg - the email address in the chapter when John texts a murderer. Try it out! It's not much, but you can see the truly awful logo I dreamed up.


	31. Another One

**Another One**

Timeline in this is a bit different than the original... ah well.

* * *

John came upstairs in a good mood, humming to himself as he entered the flat to see Sherlock on his couch. "I said can you pass me a pen," she stated, and he looked at her.

"When?"

"Five minutes ago."

"Didn't notice I'd gone out, then," John sighed, and threw her a pen. She caught it without looking, and held it in her hands as she stared forward. John groaned -in the time he was out, she'd managed to turn his wall into a murder board, with pictures stuck up on the wallpaper with - was that _gum? Chewed_ gum?

John groaned, rubbing his forehead, before deciding he was going to stay in his good mood and heading for the kitchen to start the kettle. "Figure anything out?"

"Look at this." As soon as he entered the sitting room again she shoved his own laptop at him. He ignored the breach in privacy - he'd deleted all links to his blog and his search history, he knew the login by heart anyway - and glanced over the article.

MAN FOUND DEAD IN FLAT - KILLER WHO CAN WALK THROUGH WALLS - POLICE ARE ON ALERT

"It's - the same," he finally said, and Sherlock nodded with a long breath out.

"He's killed another one."

John sighed. He wondered if he'd ever get Sherlock to call them 'people' or 'person' instead of 'one' or 'them'. It was unlikely, he decided before getting up to look at the board along with Sherlock.

"What did you think of the job offer?" Sherlock asked. John thought about asking how she'd known, but he decided not to. If he spent all his time asking how Sherlock got her information, she'd never shut up, and she'd also get an insufferably big head about it.

"He's great."

"He?" Sherlock would pick up on the slip-up.

"It," John corrected himself. "It's great. It's all great."

"Great," Sherlock said back, slightly sarcastically, but John wouldn't let her ruin his mood.

"So?" he pointed to the wall. "Figure anything out?"

Sherlock shook her head. "Regular trips to China, small flat, boyfriend - all the normal stuff." She said 'normal' in a tone which clearly meant 'dull'. She shook her curls determinedly. "It'll have to wait till morning. Not going out now - it's too late." She picked up her cello and started scratching as she thought. John just headed back into the kitchen to get the tea. Back to not going out at night then...


	32. Urban Zombie Frenzy

**Urban Zombie Frenzy**

I snuck the word _zombie_ into a Sherlock Holmes fic. I'm so proud of me.

* * *

She got him up abominably early, though, John thought the next day when she poked him out of bed. "Come on. I need to ask for some advice."

"_What_?" John asked, then sat up immediately. "Say that again."

She sniffed. "You heard me the first time, I'm not saying it again." John noticed Sherlock wasn't entirely without some sense of decorum - she wasn't looking at his body, although he had gotten into the habit of wearing a light cotton t-shirt along with his shorts. "Now get up."

Sherlock made tea while John was getting dressed - presumably to keep him from taking more time to make it himself, he guessed - and then she was sweeping out the door with that coat of hers, and they found their way to a square, ducking down a side street along the edge.

A kid was spraying the wall with a can of paint. He didn't look over as Sherlock walked up to him. "Like it?" he asked, and John realized this fellow was Sherlock's 'advice'. "I call it - "Urban Zombie Frenzy"."

It looked more like a doberman in a policeman's jacket to John, but he supposed he didn't know much about street graffiti.

"There's going to be a community officer coming around that corner in about a minute, so tell me why I should pay attention to you," the kid continued.

Sherlock whipped out her phone, hitting a button and handing it to the kid. "Two people are dead, I need your help with this to identify the killer." The boy handed his paint to John so he could grab the phone.

"Wot, and this is wot you've got to go on?" the kid asked him, and Sherlock shrugged. He looked at the pictures, flipping through them. "I recognize the paint. Hardcore propellant. Zinc, probably."

Sherlock nodded. "Anything about the symbols?"

The kid shook his head. "Never seen it."

"Well, if you do, call me. Lives depend on it." Sherlock was insistent. The kid shrugged and handed her phone back. John noticed Sherlock could call the victims 'people' if it meant cooperation.

"OY!" a voice came from around the corner, and Sherlock and the kid bolted. John was left looking around, confused, with a can of paint in his hands as a community police officer came around the corner. He groaned inwardly as the police office came closer. "Making a little gallery of our own, here, are we?" he asked, gesturing to the paint which John had forgotten was in his hands. John groaned aloud now.

"No, this belongs to -" he turned, but then remembered the kid had bolted. He groaned again. "-him..." he finished, knowing it was going to get him nowhere.

"Yeah, I bet," the officer scoffed. "Why don't we take a ride down to the station, shall we?"

John texted Sherlock multiple times throughout the process, but in the end he was informed that he had to go to court on Tuesday. When he left the station he was fuming. He flipped off a couple of security cameras, just because, hoping Mycroft would see it. Perhaps a stupid way of venting his anger, but Mycroft deserved it anyway, he figured.

He stomped up the stairs, opening the door with the quick precision of an angry soldier, and stepped forward.

"You took your time," was all Sherlock said. She was staring at her bloody wall with the bloody pictures of the first bloody crime scene.

"Yes, well," he said, flexing his hands and pacing. "You know policemen, with their paperwork and their -" he realized Sherlock wasn't listening. "I have court on Tuesday, Sherlock." She still wasn't listening. "_They're giving me an ASBO_!"

"Yes, good, that's wonderful," she murmured, and he started to take off his jacket, thinking of tea, when she turned around and grabbed it before he could take it off completely. "No, no, you're coming with me, we have to get to the second crime scene."

"But Dimmock -" he tried to protest, but she was pushing him out the door.

"Your tea can wait, John," was all she said, and then she shut the door behind them and they were going down the stairs.


	33. Spider-Man

**Spider-Man**

I'm so so sorry, my dear readers. My husband got very sick and I've been to the hospital and back and forth to the doctors for the past week or so, and my poor story got stuck on the wayside. Anyway, I'm hoping the following two chapters helps a bit. Many thanks again for your readership! I will try to update at least once a week until my life gets back on track - a bit slower than my 2-chapters-a-day schedule from before, but better than nothing, right? Thank you for being understanding.

* * *

"Look, it wasn't me, surely you've got it figured out enough to know that much," John was saying, as Sherlock ignored everything to look up the headline on Dimmock's computer. Dimmock had his arms crossed, not looking pleased about them being there, but Sherlock had commandeered his computer and he had to play nice if he wanted it back.

"Here," Sherlock finally said, turning the computer to the DI. "Second one in as many days."

John sighed, realizing he wasn't going to get any help from Dimmock about his ASBO, and nodded in agreement to Sherlock's statement. "You've got to admit it looks similar, what with a killer who can somehow walk through solid wall."

Dimmock looked up at them. He wasn't saying no, but he also wasn't saying yes. John sighed again, missing Lestrade.

"Did you get the ballistics?" Sherlock asked after a moment, and Dimmock nodded his head. "And the bullet," Sherlock continued. "Was it fired from her gun?"

Dimmock shook his head.

"Right, then," Sherlock pulled herself up to her full height - which was taller than John by half a foot. "It seems this investigation might go faster if you would accept my word as gospel."

John almost chuckled at the look on the DI's face. "She does that to everyone," he said to the man, who just stared at Sherlock. She slammed a piece of paper onto his desk.

"I've just handed you a murder inquiry," she stated. John didn't know if slamming papers counted as 'handing'. "Five minutes in his flat. That's all I'm asking for."

Dimmock just nodded.

Less than half an hour later, they were in Gary Leerson's flat. It was dirty, cluttered with papers and books. The man was obviously an avid reader. He didn't even own a television.

Sherlock swept through the flat, noting exits and entrances, then suddenly pulling on her gloves and reaching up to touch the skylight. "Unlocked," she whispered under her breath. "Three floors up. That's why they think they're invincible - lock the door and no one can get in."

"So how did he get in?" Dimmock's voice was annoying. Even John didn't welcome it.

"We're dealing with a killer who can climb." Sherlock's voice was breathless. Dimmock was lucky that she was so excited about the uniqueness of their murderer - otherwise John had a feeling she'd have been harsher. "Scales the walls like an insect, came in through the skylight."

"He was killed by _Spider-Man_." Dimmock's voice was flat. Sherlock ignored him.

"Wait - so how'd he get into Isabelle's flat?" John asked, and Sherlock grinned.

"Same way I did, John - the balcony."

"Right," John nodded, catching up. "But who can do all that?"

"I've no idea," Sherlock said, and when Dimmock sighed and left the room, she _squealed_, actually _squealed_, and turned in a circle, clapping her hands. "Climbing killer. Oh, it's Christmas," she whispered to herself in elation, and left the room as well.

John stood still, feeling like he'd just witnessed Sherlock Holmes taking off all her clothes. He wondered if it was a compliment or not - being allowed to see what others didn't. It either meant he was held in very high esteem by Sherlock Holmes, or it meant he wasn't worth caring about - like furniture. He would have almost decided it was the latter, but then a curly-haired face popped back through the door frame.

"Well, come on," said Sherlock Holmes, and John decided, as he followed behind her, that even if he was furniture, it couldn't be that bad.


	34. Library

**Library**

Guys, my life has literally turned from wonderful into the most stressful thing ever within the past week. So thank you for sticking with me and I'm sorry that the updates won't come as fast. If it makes you feel any better, the next chapter's quite a bit longer. In the meantime, enjoy. (Reviews are always a great encouragement!)

* * *

Dimmock had been about to kick them out when Sherlock opened a book that had fallen on the stairs - unlike the other books, it wasn't in a pile. It and its fellows had scattered down the stairs. She scanned it quickly and showed it to John. "The date is the same as the date he died," she said quickly, picked up the other books on the stairs, and left. John followed, holding the book.

It wasn't until they were in the taxi that he got the chance to actually look inside the book. It was a receipt from the library - the ones that told the due dates and such. "They were checked out yesterday," he said, looking up at Sherlock, and she nodded. He sighed. "Going to the library, I guess, then."

"Obvious," was her reply, checked and emotionless, but he couldn't suppress a smile as he looked out the window, imagining her twirling as she got excited about the killer. Sherlock looked over at him and frowned. John ignored it.

When they got to the library, Sherlock had them go through the library books Gary had gotten, finding where they'd been on the shelves. It was a pain, with a lot of finding different numbers in the Dewey Decimal System.

They were on the third book in Sherlock's arms when John noticed a bit of yellow. He pulled books off the shelf, and after the first two came off, he knew what he was seeing. "Sherlock," he said quickly, his heart beating faster at the revelation, and also feeling a bit sick at the thought that the killer had been standing where he was.

That didn't last long, though, because Sherlock pushed him out of the way a second later to stare at the yellow paint. A straight line and the killer's tag again. "Gotcha," she whispered, and pulled out her phone to take a picture.

The books were left at the library, but they kept the receipt. John thought about giving it to Dimmock as evidence, but decided he didn't like the DI enough to do anything Sherlock didn't ask him to do. He was a soldier, not a consulting detective.

In the taxi, Sherlock began to rant.

"We use codes all the time, John. Banks, the internet, right down to that chip-and-pin machine you took exception to."

"Right," John nodded. "I know."

"But those are all computer-generated." Sherlock sounded frustrated. "This -" she gestured to the picture on her phone, "isn't. This is ancient, and modern code-breaking methods won't solve it. We've got to crack this code. It's the key to the case." She went back to silence, thinking.

"Right." John stared out the window before looking at her. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Mrs. Hudson won't let me take the skull out in public, and yesterday she hid it entirely," was the answer.

"Right. Right." John looked out the window again. "So I'm basically just filling in for your skull?" _So I am just furniture_.

"Don't look so down, John," Sherlock said, smiling. "You're doing fine."

John chuckled, and realized he was possibly the only person who had ever been allowed to fill in for the skull before. That wasn't so bad.

"Well, I do have one, underneath all - this," he said, gesturing to his face, and Sherlock snorted in amusement, and they went back to looking out their windows, John watching for snipers now.


	35. The Lucky Cat

**The Lucky Cat**

And now for something much longer. As for an update - my husband is still sick, so we're just taking it a day at a time. I have gotten so little sleep I could cry. And as I am still without a beta/brit-picker, all mistakes are my own. Let me know if something's wrong or misspelled, 'kay?

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep that night, but John insisted he needed to rest.

When he got up the next morning, she was still staring at her murder wall, the pins and photographs making a mesh across the wallpaper. She must have added about thirty bits of string and forty pins to the mess overnight.

John sighed and rumpled his hair, still in his jim-jams and wondering if he should bother offering the detective some tea.

"Yes, please, black and two sugars," Sherlock said before he'd even asked. John rolled his eyes - he supposed he should be used to this by now. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table as he went past, putting the kettle on before checking for any new messages.

"A guy named Simon called. I told him you were sleeping. He said he'd call you back." Sherlock's voice drifted in from the sitting room. John frowned, annoyed.

"Sherlock, you should have woken me!" he protested, dialing Simon in hopes he hadn't already lost his new job.

"You said you needed your sleep in order to function," Sherlock replied. John put the phone to his ear, listening to it ring as he crossed his fingers.

"Hello?" A singularly attractive voice answered the phone, and John relaxed a bit in relief.

"Hey, Simon, it's John. Look, I'm so sorry I didn't pick up your call earlier - I'm afraid I rather slept in this morning. I hope my flatmate wasn't too rude. She can be... " John searched for the right word to describe Sherlock - "...socially oblivious."

A chuckle came over the phone just as John heard a faint, "I am not!" from Sherlock in the other room.

"No worries," Simon said easily, "it's good that you called. I was just wondering if you'd be able to take a quick shift this evening, nothing too long but you could have a quick tour of the clinic, get a feel for the place and your coworkers - if you're up to it, it seems you had a long day yesterday. She said something about how you couldn't function without your rest."

John groaned. "That's what I've had to tell her to get her to let me sleep - Sherlock seems to think sleep is unnecessary." Simon chuckled over the phone again, and John was glad his new boss had a good sense of humour - rather attractive, really. "I've had plenty of sleep by now, though, so this afternoon should be fine."

"Really? Brilliant! See you at four or so?" Simon said, and John grinned.

"Sounds great. Thanks again for this, Simon."

"No problem. I'm just glad you're willing to help us out. I'll see you later, then." Simon waited a moment before ending the call with a light 'click'.

John leaned against the counter, unreasonably happy for a simple phone call, and tapped his foot on the floor as he waited for the kettle to boil and set a timer on his phone for three o'clock, figuring that would give him time to get ready and walk down to the clinic.

The kettle started to whistle and John quickly made teas for Sherlock and himself, then got dressed. Sherlock was still staring at her wall.

"Sherlock, I'm going out," he said, grabbing his coat and gulping down the last of his tea. "Don't burn down the flat while I'm gone."

Sherlock didn't reply, but that was nothing new. John made his way down the stairs and to the nearest Tesco's, buying a large amount of chocolate and a thank-you card for Molly, along with a gift bag and some crepe paper for stuffing, then walked back to the flat to wrap it. It didn't take too long, and John put the bag next to the door, looking at the clock. It was only about ten o'clock, and he frowned. He had far too much time to waste before four.

Luckily Sherlock had plans for that. "I need you to go by the station," she said, getting up and grabbing her scarf. "Get Gary Leerson's day book or something, he must have had one."

"And what will you be doing?" John asked, grabbing his wallet, and, after a moment, his Browning, checking that the safety was on before nestling it into the small of his back.

"I'll be going by the bank. I'm sure Isabelle's PA will have something about what she did the day she died. People like that keep all their receipts, trying to stick everything on the company card. We need to know what connects the two victims." Sherlock bundled her scarf round her throat, then throwing her coat on over it. "I'll text you later."

"Right," John said, feeling up for it. He had got three hours, after all. "But I have to be back here by three at the latest."

Sherlock didn't answer and John sighed, knowing that he'd have to keep an eye on the time himself. Still, he headed out the door. "You can use my card for a taxi," Sherlock called after him, and John wondered how she was going to pay, but didn't argue.

When he got to the station, Dimmock greeted him with a nod but no smile. John explained what he was after, and Dimmock sighed, bringing him back to a desk with some boxes on it, and they rifled through, trying to find something that resembled a day book.

"Your friend," Dimmock started, and John tensed, ready for the torrent of bad words Sherlock normally inspired, "She's an arrogant sort of woman." John sighed, eyebrows raised, and Dimmock looked over at him. "What?"

John laughed. "Normally people say a lot worse than that," he admitted with a small grin, and Dimmock smiled back quickly before handing him a book.

"Gary Leerson's diary. Will this do?"

John looked over the book and nodded. "I'll find out. Thanks." He flipped through the book, finding the date Gary had died. He figured he should start at the beginning and retrace the man's steps. It seemed like what Sherlock had been planning to do.

He got back in the taxi and made his way past a couple of cafes and bookstores. It seemed Gary was an aspiring journalist, which made sense considering all the books in his flat. Luckily due to the Gary's enjoyment of writing, his diary was very thorough, and John found himself crisscrossing London. He hoped Sherlock didn't mind the rather large taxi charges he was racking up on her card - and then realized it probably came from Mycroft anyway, and flipped off another security camera.

"Next... the Lucky Cat..." John mused. He'd taken out his phone and made a list of all the places Gary had gone, and crossed off the last one as the cabbie pulled up near Shaftsbury Avenue.

"You wanted off here?" the cabbie asked him, and John nodded.

"Ta," he said, climbing out and gathering his things, then walking into the maze of shops and stands. John had always liked this part of town, mostly for the cuisine. He'd liked trying new foods in Afghanistan, and even before he'd joined the army he had enjoyed finding out-of-the-way restaurants. He recognized one here - and right across from it was the Lucky Cat. He headed towards the shop, then decided he would just quickly check the menu at the restaurant first.

When he turned around he ran straight into a very familiar long coat. He was backing up when he realized Sherlock was already speaking a million miles per hour.

"...piece together a picture of her day using scraps of information. Now she took a cab here so she must have been going somewhere close, I just don't know where."

John shook his head, trying to keep up with how fast Sherlock was talking. "Sherlock," he tried to interject, but she was already talking again.

"It's somewhere close - it makes sense, she was the Hong Kong accounts, I just - "

"SHERLOCK." John spoke loudly, and Sherlock finally stopped, raising her eyebrows. John continued. "Right there," he pointed, "the Lucky Cat."

"How did you know?" Sherlock frowned.

John pulled out Gary's diary. "Gary had a diary. He came here, too."

Sherlock almost looked impressed, and they headed over to the Lucky Cat.


	36. Codebreaker

**Codebreaker**

I LOVE MY READERS.

Life has gotten better - husband still a bit sick but infinitely better than before - and I get to go camping today! So I'm posting this a day early for you all so you don't have to wait till Monday...

* * *

The small shop was filled with trinkets and toys, and smoky with incense from the small burner in a corner. Lucky cats stood on nearly every shelf, in the form of teakettles, paperweights, and porcelain coin banks. John entered after Sherlock, picking up various items and trying to look like a casual "tourist shopper".

"You want - lucky cat?" the shop owner asked, speaking halting but clear English. John shook his head.

"Ah, no, no thank you," he replied, shifting his weight to his other leg. The very British part of him always felt bad when he perused a shop without buying something.

"Only ten pound. Ten pound! Your wife, she will like!" the shop owner insisted, holding up a large lucky cat coin bank and nodding discreetly in Sherlock's direction.

John's eyes went wide. "Ah, no, thank you." His voice was more firm this time, a trace of the soldier in it, and the woman knew he wasn't going to buy the lucky cat. He suddenly felt even more awkward - he'd reacted to Sherlock being called his wife, not the actual trinket. He glanced to his left, trying not to look at the woman, and noticed a tea set next to him. It was dainty, with small tea cups next to it, the Chinese type without handles that were small enough to be shot glasses. He picked one up and turned it over, wondering how much each one cost.

He was greeted with familiar symbols on the sticker on the bottom, and he almost dropped the cup. "Sherlock," he said quickly - too quickly - they were supposed to be subtly shopping - and he cleared his throat. "Sherlock," he said, more controlled this time. "Take a look at this."

Sherlock had started toward him when she'd heard her name the first time, and now she swept next to him, plucking the cup from his hands. "Yes, I like it," she said, and John nodded, as if they were talking about the cup and not what was written underneath. She turned to the shopkeeper, and raised a hand. "Can I get a box for the set?" she asked quickly, and the shop owner nodded quickly, smiling and reaching under the counter for packaging.

John shifted his weight as the woman wrapped the cups and pot, carefully setting them into the box with paper in between. Sherlock was about to whip out her card when she realized John had it, and with a rueful smile she gestured him forward. John blushed as he paid with her Visa, realizing now the woman definitely thought they were together. As if to confirm it, he saw the shop owner slip a lucky cat into the bag with a wink and a smile. She handed it to him as Sherlock left the store with a jingle of the bell, and whispered, "Your wife, she will like!"

John just blushed further, unable to protest at this point, taking the bag with a quick "Ta," and quickly rejoining Sherlock outside. He grabbed the lucky cat and thrust it at her, blushing. "Apparently my 'wife' will like this."

Sherlock looked at it, then at his furiously red face, and grinned, grabbing it out of his hand and thrusting it into the hands of a nearby woman, who looked confused and then grateful. John followed as she began to stride away.

"She wanted one anyway, she kept looking at them through the window and then glancing down at the pavement disappointedly," Sherlock said, answering a question John hadn't voiced.

John just grinned and focused on keeping up with Sherlock's long legs.

"They're _numbers_, John," Sherlock continued, not needing his approval or acknowledgment anyway. "Ancient Chinese number system. That line was a one."

He'd guessed that by now, so John said nothing.

"Numbers... Always in pairs," she mused aloud, and then abruptly turned, leading them backwards and toward the same little restaurant he'd been admiring earlier. "This one's fine," she said as she pushed the door open for him and nodded. "You can always tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of the door handle."

"No you can't," John said, and the door swung shut behind him as she stepped in next to him. A small hostess came up and nodded, leading them to a table.

"Yes, it's completely logical," Sherlock insisted, and John sat down, putting the tea set next to him as she flung herself into the seat opposite.

"Explain it to me, then," John said, glancing at the menu and deciding what he wanted after reading the first two options.

"European people are generally tall, as are most of our foreign tourists from America and other such Western places. It's the Chinese and other such cultures that are often a foot or so shorter; thus when reaching for the door, their hands will wear at a portion rather lower than my hand will naturally reach when grabbing a door. If it's just junk food that they serve up to unwitting Westerners, no native Chinese tourist will go near the place, and the door handle at that level will be clean and unworn. If Chinese persons do visit the place, the bottom of the door handle will be marked and worn like the top."

Sherlock's explanation was quickly spoken and she wasn't really focusing on it; she was in her thinking position with her hands pressed together in front of her face, eyes on the wall above John. John, on the other hand, was listening intently.

"That's brilliant," he said, and grinned, then looked up at the waitress next to them and began to order.

John enjoyed his meal - Sherlock didn't eat at all, instead spending the time thinking. Every once in a while he would look up and ask a question.

"But," he asked around a mouthful of egg-roll, "_why_ did they die, Sherlock? What connects them?"

"They brought something in those suitcases, John. Something they brought to the Lucky Cat."

"Smugglers," John said, grinning. He took a couple of bites, then looked up again. "But if they both - both delivered - why did they still die?"

Sherlock's curls bounced as she frowned and leaned forward, as if she were sharing a secret. "What if one of them was sticky-fingered?" she asked. Her voice was eager and John realized she had just figured it out. She hadn't known until she'd said it. His heart jumped with excitement as he realized that he was included - they were solving this case _together_. He leaned forward, unconsciously mimicking her as he spoke.

"The killer doesn't know which one did it, so he goes after both of them. Got it."

They both sat back, John looking down at his meal and Sherlock gazing out the window.

John was just finishing the last of his meal when Sherlock spoke. "John, when was the last time it rained?"


	37. Soo Lin Yao

**Soo Lin Yao**

I went camping.

My car broke down on the way back.

In rainforest.

With no bug spray.

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In other news, thank you all for reading!

* * *

They crossed the street, Sherlock striding purposefully over to an apartment door next to the Lucky Cat. A flier was pinned to it, proclaiming a bargain of 30% off - or so John guessed. It was very wrinkled and the ink had run from damp. John could see Sherlock's point - had someone been here since the last rain, they surely would have taken it down.

"Perhaps they're on holiday," he suggested.

"Hardly," Sherlock said, leading him to the alleyway down the block. "She would have told her landlord to keep an eye on the place, to take anything so it didn't look open to robbery."

"Right," John said uneasily. "How did you know it was a woman?"

"On the doorbell, it said _Soo Lin Yao. _Flowers drawn round the edges of the placeholder - hand drawn in a feminine scrawl." Sherlock turned the corner quickly, bringing them back behind Soo Lin's flat. A rickety-looking fire escape stood there, leading up to a window. Sherlock gestured forward with a hand. "Care to do the honours?"

"You had no trouble barging in yourself last time," John grumbled, but he started to climb the rusting metal ladder.

"Last time, I knew what I would most likely find," Sherlock said from behind him. "I'll be right behind you."

"Oh, yes, that makes me feel so much better," John said sarcastically. He wasn't about to give Sherlock the satisfaction of hearing him admit that it did make him feel a bit better about breaking into someone's flat.

At least, he felt better for a moment, because then the rungs under John 's feet gave way with a clang of metal and he was left grasping at the top with both hands, knuckles white with tension. He desperately hoped the bar he was gripping wouldn't give way - at twenty feet up he'd hardly die but he really didn't want a broken ankle. _I just got rid of that bloody limp_, he thought, and the anger gave him the strength to heave himself onto the small landing in front of the window.

"Looks like you'll have to let me in from the front," Sherlock called up, in a voice that said, _Dull_.

"She's left her window open," John called down.

"Told you she wasn't on holiday," was all Sherlock yelled back as she disappeared round the corner.

John looked at the window, his gun in the small of his back. "Right," he said shortly, then climbed in.

It was cute. There was a vase precariously perched on a desk - he knocked it over but managed to catch it before it broke. It left a large splash of water on the rug and John sighed. _Oops. _

"Are you going to let me in?" came Sherlock's annoyed voice from the front door. John smiled at the impatience in her tone.

"Yes, coming," John said, trying not to disturb anything too much as he started to cross the room.

Two strong hands took him by the throat from behind. John's military training kicked in within seconds, twisting in a roll that broke the killer's grasp.

_Yeah, housebreaking really isn't my thing, this was not a good idea. No more breaking and entering_, he thought to himself as he fought with his masked assailant.

"NOT COMING VERY QUICKLY I GUESS," Sherlock's voice seemed overly loud to his adrenaline-rattled mind. "CAUSE YOU'RE LIKE SHERLOCK HOLMES, CONSULTING DETECTIVE, WORLD'S ONLY."

John wanted to shout back that she was too loud and would she please give him a moment to fight a ninja - but he had very little breath as he blocked a reach for his gun and got punched in the kidney. So he had to settle for, "NOT. HELPING," gasped out as loudly as he could under the circumstances.

However, he managed to hit the ninja hard enough that it - he - staggered back a bit and then John had a moment to pull out his gun. Unfortunately the ninja had the window to his back and quickly disappeared through it. John had a moment when he hoped the ninja had fallen, but then he remembered that ninjas could climb.

He groaned, pressing a hand to his side. The front door clicked open - Sherlock came in pocketing something that looked suspiciously like a lock-picking set - not that John minded, he was more worried about the bruise forming on his kidney and how likely he was to pee blood for the next few days - and now Sherlock was looking at him, pale-faced.

"We need to look for Soo Lin Yao," John finally said, and colour came back into Sherlock's face. "Right?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Found this under the door," she said, holding up a piece of paper and tossing it at him, then walking out the way she had come.

John realized he'd been leaning back on a desk absentmindedly, and now he heaved himself off of it with a sigh, wincing again at the throb in his side and looking at the paper in his hands. It was a flier for a museum, with a boyish scrawl.

"Soo Lin -

let me know you're all right

Andy"

This was followed by a phone number.

He took a deep breath, attempting to ignore the pain in his side that pressed in when his lungs moved. "Off we go, then."

* * *

"You think it's connected?" John asked Sherlock in the car. "Soo Lin and the others?"

Sherlock gave him a look that said, "Obvious," and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, handing it to him.

"What's this?" John asked, looking at it with some interest. It was black, and looked like it had once been origami, but it had been crumpled so he could not tell what it was supposed to be.

"Really, John, pay attention," Sherlock said, shaking her head. "There's been one at every killing - in Isabel's mouth, on the table at Gary's flat - I just found this one on the floor at Soo Lin's flat, crumpled as you see it."

John's eyes widened. "Do you think she's dead?"

"No." Sherlock's voice was clipped and cold. "I believe this was brought out for you, courtesy of your visitor, and then stepped on in your... scuffle."

"How kind," John said, grimacing. "I'll have to remember flowers for him next time."

Sherlock looked at him quickly. "Next time?"

John pretended to frown. "You're right, I'd much prefer no second date. He wasn't really my type."

This time Sherlock's mouth twitched in a quick almost-smile. But just as quickly she was able to compose her face back to neutral, and she switched subjects abruptly. "No, not dead yet, perhaps. She's been very clever so far..." her voice lapsed into silence, but John was fine with that, looking out the window at the tops of buildings for snipers and spider-man killers.


	38. Museum Threat

**Museum Threat**

Two small chapters this week as I felt they were far too small to only give you one. Many thanks to ALL my readers, and do leave a review if you enjoyed this. They are my muses.

* * *

There were no snipers on the top of the Museum as John and Sherlock climbed out of the taxi. He checked his watch - 2:30. They could go and have a chat and then he'd use Sherlock's card and get a taxi to the clinic. It was the least Sherlock could do for him after he'd nearly been throttled by a ninja. He said as much to Sherlock, who gave him a wry look in return.

"Ninja are Japanese, John. This whole case is distinctly Chinese - thus they are some other form of assassin."

"Oh," was all John could think of to say, and they climbed the steps to the museum in silence.

Once inside Sherlock wasted no time asking for "Andy", and they were escorted quickly into the Chinese history section of the museum, a nervous young man greeting Sherlock with a worried expression.

"Soo Lin Yao," was all Sherlock said by way of an introduction, and the boy's eyes lit up immediately.

"Do you know where she is?" he asked eagerly, and his eyes fell as Sherlock shook her head.

"We're actually hoping you could tell us a bit about her," John said, stepping forward. "Sherlock's a detective, and we think Soo Lin may be in danger."

"Yeah, whatever I can do to help," Andy said, looking anxious. John felt for him - he was obviously besotted - he was probably worried sick. Andy was obviously more than willing to help in order to get her back.

"You left her a note," Sherlock said, taking the conversation into her own hands. "You noticed she was missing, then."

"Yeah," the boy said, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "She'd quit suddenly." His eyes flickered to a display in the center of the room, then he licked his lips and continued. "But this job - her pieces - it was her life. She'd never leave like that - not without seeing someone else put in charge of them..."

Sherlock nodded, then strode to the center of the room to peer with interest at the collection housed within a glass box. "What are these?"

Andy came over, hands gesturing as he explained. "They're old - ancient - Chinese teapots. They're made of a special type of clay - ah - if you don't use it so the tea can soak it, the clay will start to crack." He surveyed the pots for a second before adding, "They were Soo Lin's passion. She would put on a tea ceremony for the tourists."

"Caring for the pots and educating the masses at the same time," Sherlock said appreciatively, though John felt the way she said 'the masses' was rather rude. "Is that what she was doing the day you last saw her?"

Andy nodded.

"Can you show me where she would have been right before she left? Are there lockers? Would she have had to clean up?" Sherlock asked briskly. Andy nodded agian.

"Sure, no problem, just let me tell the manager." Andy left, and John turned to Sherlock.

"You're thinking she was threatened?"

"How else would she know when to disappear?" Sherlock replied. "Someone may have left her a note, sent her something."

"Right," John said, shifting his weight and looking at his watch. Nearly three o'clock. Half an hour and he'd have to go.

"She's fine with it," Andy said, reentering the room. He gestured to John and Sherlock to follow him.

"Soo Lin did her presentations in there -" Andy gestured to the room they'd just left - "But she'd pack away the tea and things and store it back here." He brought them into a room with movable shelves, turning to a section and cranking them open. "Her section was right in here."

Sherlock hummed an assent, but John could see her attention was elsewhere, and he followed her gaze to a statue across the room. The covers on all the statues in the room were wrapped tight to their pieces, but this one billowed loose. The statue underneath was vaguely human-shaped, and John had the disconcerting though of a standing, sheeted corpse.

Sherlock strode across the room, yanking the sheet off with no regard for the antique.

"What is that..." Andy's voice faded away as all three stared at the statue. John's eyes flickered over to Sherlock, who had her lips pursed as if it were a confirmation of something she'd guessed all along.

Which it was, for on the face and bust of the statue was yellow paint.


	39. Simon Says

**Simon Says**

I'm sorry. I couldn't resist this title. It has nothing to do with what actually happens. But it's such a good title.

* * *

John barely made it to the clinic on time - Sherlock had wanted him to go to the library and look up numerical cryptology, but John had _insisted_ he be allowed to make his date.

Work. To make his work. Of course.

The clinic was small, but it was clean, well-ordered, and had friendly staff. John could see himself fitting in quite easily. Simon showed him around and introduced him to the other staff members, chatting lightly and generally making the place feel quite welcoming.

At the door Simon gave him a last handshake. "So, um, I think you fit in well - will this work for you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's - great. It's very nice, I think it'll work fine," John replied, grinning back. It was nice to have social interaction that didn't revolve around someone getting murdered.

"Brilliant! How soon do you want to be on the roster? We can use all the help we can get," Simon said, smiling.

"Well, how soon can you fit me?" John asked.

Simon shrugged, his smile slightly embarrassed. "To be honest? Tomorrow. Some sort of twenty-four hour flu's been going around lately, and one of our doctors left on maternity leave last Wednesday. It's been difficult to balance things for the rest of us."

John nodded - he'd been there. "Well, I can come in at eight or so if you're willing to fit me into a room - there won't be any trouble with the nurses or anyone? They barely know me..." he hesitated.

Simon shook his head quickly. "They'll all be glad for the help," he replied. "It's miserable for everyone when patients are grumpy 'cause they've had to wait."

"Right. Well. Eight tomorrow, then?" John asked, and Simon nodded.

"I look forward to it," he said with a lift of an eyebrow that said far more.

John blushed.


	40. Razzle Dazzle

**Razzle Dazzle**

Okay people so hoolihoops beta'd me on this chapter and I'm _one billion percent certain_ that it is _one billion percent better_ due to her help. So, many many thanks to hoolihoops. :D Also check out her tumblr under levathiantoothpaste because it's brilliant!

* * *

John came home to find Sherlock pouting on his couch - for a moment he was confused and then he remembered. "Are you going to be a constant fixture on my couch, seeing as you've turned your own into cinders?"

She looked up at his voice, and her gleeful expression immediately made him tense.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, getting up. "Only it's getting dark and Raz called and you have to go meet him."

"Raz?" John questioned, confused, before the image of the graffiti artist flashed through his head. He frowned. "No. I am _not_ getting two ASBOs in as many days."

"He won't be working, John, it's dark, and I need you to photo it for me," Sherlock said, rolling her eyes.

"Why aren't _you_ going?" John asked. "You seemed just fine with running off the other evening to eat poison."

"It's dark out, John, and it's not a great part of town, and I'm-_**"**_ Sherlock said, gesturing to herself, like that answer actually explained everything. "So unless you want me to use your gun..."

"Fine," John said, sighing, then wincing. His throat had stayed sore all day from his near-strangling. "But your _friend_ can't pull a stunt on me again."

"He won't," Sherlock said confidently. "He'll meet you at Speedy's. Now off you go. Does your phone camera have flash?"

"No, but I've got a penlight," John replied, sighing again. "There had better be water on for tea when I get back."

"No, when you get back we'll go out," Sherlock said quickly.

"Out where?" John asked, folding his arms, annoyed.

"To meet Soo Lin," Sherlock answered, then took him by the shoulders and guided him to the door before he could ask any questions. "But first, you meet Raz, yeah? Send me the photo once you have it."

John rolled his eyes. "I have work in the morning, and I warn you, if it goes badly 'cause I'm tired, I will clean out your refrigerator by force."

Sherlock just grinned. "Shoo," she said, and closed the door behind him.

Raz was down at Speedy's, as promised, and gave him a cheeky grin as soon as he recognized John.

"Got somefin' you'll like," he said cheekily, and led the way out the door. John shoved his hands in his pockets and clenched his teeth, reminding himself that teaching the kid a lesson wasn't on tonight's schedule, and followed.

**Walking through a skate park makes me feel old. Not appreciative of this little adventure,** John texted Sherlock as he was led into a dark, smoky area covered in graffiti.

**Smart Raz. What better place to hide a tree than in a forest?** Sherlock texted him back.

**Your obvious concern for my well-being and comfort is noted,**John replied. He had to admit, though, she had a point - the entire place was covered in layer upon layer of graffiti.

"Over 'ere," Raz pointed. John could see some yellow paint sticking out from a more recent tag. His accent was rough, with H's almost at the beginning of some words, but not quite, and parts completely cut off of others.

"Good eye," he admitted to Raz, who looked rather pleased with the compliment. "Any more round here?" John continued, and Raz shrugged.

"Sherlock told me to tell 'er right away when I got a sniff of it," Raz said. "So I thought... two 'eads are better than one, yea? We'll 'ave this place searched in a jiffy."

John nodded. "You take this area, I take outside?"

Raz agreed. "Just make sure you get the tunnel for the train 'cause some of the guys tag in there. An' the car park next door is a fair bet too."

"Got it," John nodded, taking a picture of the tag in front of him on his phone before turning away. "Meet you here in an hour."

John scoured the outside of the building, but after about a half-hour his brain was starting to hurt from the swirl of colours and whirls of multi-hued paint interspersed with posters detailing live events and tattoo parlours and, once, a weed salesman. John thought about tearing that one down and giving it to Lestrade, with some quip about how eager the DI seemed about drugs busts, but then he remembered how much better Lestrade seemed when compared to Dimmock and decided not to.

Next he went to the car park. Surprisingly there wasn't much here - although he could see the place had new paint in several places so perhaps it was simply well-maintained. He hoped their graffiti hadn't been painted over.

If Dimmock ever tried a 'drugs bust' in the future, John would come back and get the weed salesman's poster. Maybe he could get Dimmock transferred to the illegal substances division if he tried hard enough.

Nothing in the car park. John had about fifteen minutes before he had to meet Raz. He wasn't too eager about ducking into a train tunnel, but a quick look online on his phone assured him that no trains were due anytime within the hour, so he readied his penlight and ducked inside.

It was chilly, and the tunnel was roughly a hundred feet long, and John had to search every inch of it, as the whole thing was covered in graffiti. He walked down slowly, zipping up his jacket first and then scanning each side with his penlight. Nothing. He was about to turn around at the end of the tunnel when he caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye. He turned and caught his breath.

An entire wall beside the tracks was covered in yellow symbols he could easily recognize. He quickly fumbled through his pockets for his phone and took several pictures, then jogged back through the tunnel to meet Raz in the skate park.

Raz shrugged when John entered. "Got nuffin'. You?" _**  
**_

"You're fine," John said, panting a bit. "Found enough for both of us."

"Good. Don't need Sherlock gettin' on my back cause we ain't got enuff for her," Raz said, leaning back against the wall with his hands in his pockets. "Where'd you find it?"

"Wall on the other side of the train tunnel," John replied, pulling out his phone and trying to send Sherlock the picture, but greeted instead with an 'out of battery' notice and a power-down jingle. He groaned and put it back in his pocket. "You need a lift to - wherever you're going?"

"Naw," Raz said in his laid-back way.

"Right. Well. I'm just going to catch a taxi back then," John said, nodding his head back to the entrance.

"Good luck with the case, man," was all Raz said in reply. John supposed that was the nicest thing he'd heard so far from any of Sherlock's 'friends' - unless you counted Molly.

"Thanks," he said as he left and flagged down a taxi.


	41. The Average Human Brain

**The Average Human Brain Only Remembers 62% Of What It Sees**

This chapter's a bit short, sorry all. It was immensely fun to write, though, so I hope it's as fun to read. I just really like doing John, and Sherlock, at home, being dysfunctional.

I'm thinking about sticking a case of my own (that is, a case not originally in the TV show) in between _The Blind Banker_ and _The Great Game_, because in my brain there was always some time in between those two episodes. John needs time to blog! Also that way I can enjoy my own interpretations of the show more thoroughly. I enjoy following the original script, and I will still try to continue through the episodes, but the times in between those episodes are mine to play with. What do you think? Give my own case a shot?

I'm back to being unbeta'd and un-Britpicked, so all mistakes are my own.

* * *

When John got home he was greeted by an impatient, disappointed Sherlock.

"You took forever and didn't find anything," she snapped, marching into the sitting room with arms folded.

"No, we found something. Quite a bit, actually," John replied, shrugging off his jacket and keeping his voice calm.

Then Sherlock jumped him, grabbing both his shoulders with more force than John felt was necessary and whirling him to face her, moving her hands to his face so he couldn't turn away.

"John, close your eyes," she commanded, almost desperately.

"Ah - yes?" It came out as a question, John was so startled. He closed his eyes obediently.

"Now, can you picture it?" she asked, and John nodded, rolling his eyes while keeping them closed.

"Really? Becausetheaveragehumanbrainonlyremembers62percento fwhatitseesand-" Sherlock was sounding more panicked by the second, and John decided to end her misery.

"Sherlock, I've got it," he interrupted.

"Really." She didn't sound convinced and he opened his eyes.

"Well," John broke away to dig in his pocket, "I would, if you let me plug in my phone."

Sherlock watched him, frowning, as he fumbled the phone out of his pocket and held it up to her. "I took a photo, but I didn't have the battery to send it," he explained.

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair, the lines on her forehead uncreasing. "The battery! There's always _something_," she muttered to herself, then turned to John. "Plug it in, would you, and send me the pictures. I want to print a copy to show to Soo Lin."

John headed to his room with a patient sigh, plugging his phone in and powering it up, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waited for it to load enough to send his picture. A moment later, it was sent and he got up and stretched, contemplating the possibility of grabbing tea while Sherlock printed the page.

"The kettle's hot," a voice called from the next room. John blinked. Sometimes he wondered if she could just read minds. He went to go get his tea, and as he passed Sherlock he quickly said, "I'd prefer it if you left my mind's privacy untouched, at least."

Sherlock snorted derisively as he entered the kitchen. "Hardly. You always want tea, so I put the kettle on before you came home to save time, and that noise from your bedroom just now was your best "Time for Tea" sort of sigh."

John added some sugar to his still-brewing tea and peeked his head 'round the corner. "I have a "time for tea" sigh?" he asked, amused.

"Of course, and it's in fine form tonight," Sherlock said. John could see the way her eyes crinkled as she smiled. "You've been practising all day."

"I have not, "John retorted, and the smile on Sherlock's face only got bigger. He shook his head and muttered something about always getting crazy flatmates, then turned away to add the milk to his tea.

When he opened the fridge, his hand's tremor went away completely for a full minute as he stared at what was inside. When he closed the door, he had the feeling Sherlock had probably counted the seconds. He set his travel mug on the counter, then clenched his fists and stomped into the sitting room, taking a deep breath.

"Sherlock," he asked as calmly as he could, "Why is there a head in my fridge?"

She looked up at him, for a moment all wide-eyed, curls, and innocence, and John didn't trust it for a moment. "You said you would clean out my refrigerator, John, I was only taking reasonable precautions."

John gaped for a moment, then his mouth twisted into a grin that could only be described as evil. Sherlock's eyes widened, this time not shamming innocence, but actually worried.

"You forget, Sherlock, that I can clean my _own_ refrigerator whenever I bloody well please." he turned to do just that when a hand grabbed him by the collar.

"John," Sherlock's voice was slightly panicked, "John we don't have time, we have to go see Soo Lin - you can get milk from Mrs. Hudson, John."

"Saying my name three times in two seconds won't make me less capable of scrubbing out the fridge and taking everything in it to the bins, Sherlock," John grumbled, but he grabbed his travel mug and coat.


	42. Confessions

**Confessions**

Ah. Yes. So anyway, this chapter was hard to write. I hope I didn't make any mistakes that were too stupid. Bring them to my attention if I did...

I just lost my job. I was planning to quit anyway, but I'm just frustrated that my leaving didn't do any _good_. I mean, leaving on my own terms, I could time it so my leaving made a point with my _insane-in-a-not-brilliant-way_ sort of boss, but it didn't, so I'm... sad. And angry. So I'm very sorry if this isn't edited well enough. I tried. My brain is functioning at half-capacity.

But in the meantime, enjoy!

* * *

"How do you know where Soo Lin will be, anyway?" John asked in the taxi, sipping his tea comfortably while Sherlock scowled next to him, plotting ways to rescue her experiments from his fridge. The question made her blink before she focused on John.

"The teapots at the museum. One was shining, the others were dull. I picked up the brochure for her tea ceremony - she cared for all the pots during the presentation. If only one is shinier than the others, someone's used it recently. Andy said those pots were her obsession - she's been coming back to care for them."

"How are we going to get into the museum?" John wondered aloud.

Sherlock held up a group of keys, twirling them round a finger. "Nicked them off the janitor," she said by way of explanation. John rolled his eyes, then narrowed them at the detective.

"Wait a moment. Why are you so willing to come along this time? You seemed keen enough on staying home while I searched the danker parts of London for graffiti." He folded his arms as he waited for an answer.

Sherlock sighed. "Because we'll be in a safer part of town this time. Also there are security cameras. And a frightened girl who may not talk to the guy with the gun, but may talk to the woman next to him."

There were _so many_ questions John wanted to ask about that statement, but he sensed they wouldn't be welcome, so he decided on a different tactic. "Security cameras. Will Mycroft show up?"

"Probably not, but should we get into danger I'm sure he'd show up - to protect the antiquities, if nothing else. Sometimes my brother is good for something. Only rarely, though." Sherlock smirked out the window.

John nodded, then frowned. "What makes you think Soo Lin is young? You called her a girl just now."

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "_Hand drawn_ flowers, John. An older flower lover would use a paisley pattern or cut it out of some scrap-booking paper or leave it plain. Plus, that particular flower design she drew is on a new brand of notebooks and pencils I've seen the uni students carrying about. Chances are, she drew it without realizing it was a familiar pattern - she's probably in University, or around that age."

"Right." It had been a long time since John had been at uni. He could remember pints after long study hours, drunk friends and not much studying. Apparently he'd missed something since then.

* * *

Getting into the Museum with the keys Sherlock had purloined off the janitor was a simple task. John had been dreading waiting for Soo Lin to show up - he knew enough of Sherlock already that he didn't put it past her to start pulling out vials of various acids to test on the ages-old relics. However, Sherlock during a stakeout was surprisingly calm and quiet, and John was actually impressed. He made a mental note that if he ever needed to keep Sherlock quiet, he could stage a stakeout. It would only work once, though.

He was close to dozing off when he heard a slight noise. He perked up immediately, hand flitting to his gun subconsciously, before a calm hand from Sherlock touched his arm and pulled him in the direction of the pots.

A couple of minutes later an exquisite Chinese girl peeked in, carrying a box and unlocking the display with a practised hand as Sherlock and John hid behind a nearby case. She slid out the shelf of teapots and brought them over to the table nearby to start her work. For a couple of minutes, Sherlock and John watched, distracted by the grace and deftness the Chinese girl displayed as she went through the tea ceremony, like a priest performs an old ritual. Then Sherlock shifted next to John and the spell was broken as she moved forward.

"Amazing that use can improve something rather than destroy it," Sherlock said almost nonchalantly, and Soo Lin gasped, dropping the pot in her hands. Sherlock dived forward and caught it before it hit the floor, straightening up with a crooked smile and handing the pot back to Soo Lin. "Don't want to drop that," she said, and the girl took the teapot back, wide-eyed.

"Who are you?" she whispered, her slight accent showing in her fear. Sherlock smiled and nodded toward a chair, gently leading the girl toward it and helping her sit as she answered. "I am Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. And the fellow in the corner is my friend and voluntary bodyguard, John Watson."

John gave a slight huff at the "voluntary," coming forward as he'd been trained to greet a hostage, with both hands visible and empty so as not to scare her. "Not your body-guard," he chuckled lightly, hoping the lightness to the comment would reassure Soo Lin, attempting to use the tone Mrs. Hudson so often used when she scolded him.

"How did you find me?" Soo Lin whispered. Her eyes were still terrified; John pitied her and turned to Sherlock for help explaining what was going on. However, the look he caught on Sherlock's face made him stop for a moment - her face had crumpled in a familiar way, and John saw himself looking at a fellow soldier's grave, feeling the stab of grief. John took a deep breath, trying to ground himself. _So many questions, and I can only handle the least important._

"Your dedication to your work is what gave you away, I'm afraid," he said to Soo Lin. "Sherlock noticed one of your pots was shining."

Soo Lin nodded and looked down at her hands. "I could not leave... this work..." she stopped and swallowed.

"You've been clever to avoid them so far," Sherlock said, and John was surprised to hear that her voice was as steady as ever. No wonder they got along; she was as steady under pressure as his bloody left hand.

"You - you know the one coming after you?" John asked. He was always asking the questions. Always two steps behind.

Soo Lin nodded. "Oh, yes. He is my brother."

John could not find anything to say to that, and for once, Sherlock said nothing either. Soo Lin took a deep breath, then continued, fidgeting slightly with her hands.

"Our parents died when we were young. We had no one. Nothing. We could work for the bosses - or starve on the streets, as beggars. Two orphans." She brought her foot up to her knee, slipping off her shoe to reveal a tattoo of a small flower. She looked over at Sherlock. "You know this mark?"

Sherlock shook her head. "No, but I can deduce it. The mark of the Tong."

Soo Lin nodded. "Every foot-soldier bears the mark," she said softly, as if far away. "We joined their ranks, and by the time I was fifteen I was smuggling thousands of pounds of drugs over the border into Hong Kong." She paused and pulled her shoe back on, then continued, her voice growing stronger. "But I put that life behind me. I came here. This place - they gave me a job. I was happy." She had to stop as her voice had choked up. She blinked several times, then managed to speak clearly again. "I had hoped they would have forgotten me - I am not important. But they never really let you leave! My brother; he has been... corrupted, by the one they call Chan. He came to me. He wanted my help, to find something that had been taken. I turned my brother away." Soo Lin was breathing hard now - John checked her face for any signs of shock or panic attack. But she continued. "The next day, the cypher was waiting for me. And I know he is coming for me."

"Do you know what was missing?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

Soo Lin shook her head. Sherlock sighed, then pulled out copies of John's photographs of the graffiti message. "Can you read these?"

Soo Lin took the pages, glancing over them quickly. "This is a code," she said, and Sherlock nodded.

"We know. Can you read it?"

Soo Lin looked up, almost amused. "All the smugglers know it. It is based upon a book. This, here, is the Chinese number one."

"We know the numbers, too," John said, just as Sherlock asked, "What book?"

Then the lights snapped off.


	43. Bodyguard

**Bodyguard**

Guys I'm having so much fun answering Craigslist personals from Sherlock's point of view it's not even funny. I'm considering posting it as another fic. Whaddya think? Worth a try?

Also here have a chapter I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH

* * *

"He is here," Soo Lin whispered, and John could feel the abject terror that was in her voice. "He has found me."

"Stay here," Sherlock said, and then she'd darted off. John could hear her footsteps as she left, see a shadow pass the glowing green exit sign before his eyes had even fully adjusted. He moved to block Soo Lin out of training, trying to stay calm about the fact that he had very nearly gotten strangled by this bloke and now Sherlock was running after him and she didn't have a gun.

A moment of silence. Hard breathing - from him, he realized - his adrenaline levels must be skyrocketing - of course they were.

Shots from another room. One, two, three, four. He heard Sherlock shout something - he couldn't understand it, muffled and distorted.

And then he saw Sherlock, looking grief-stricken as she'd gazed at Soo Lin earlier, and then a vision of Sherlock with a bullet crushing through her temporal bone and then a memory of her voice saying, "This is John Watson, my voluntary bodyguard."

As if it were a fucking _joke_.

"Stay down, stay still," he ordered Soo Lin, the soldier in him understanding the choice he was making, a choice of one life over the other, and apologizing to Soo Lin already. He ran after Sherlock.

* * *

He was on the other side of the museum, running towards Sherlock's back and her curly black hair when another he heard another shot from behind him.

His heart dropped. The soldier inside him sighed, already having come to terms with what the shot meant. They never should have found Soo Lin, never should have broken her cover. "_Fuck_," he whispered, combing a hand through his hair as he spun around on one heel.

He could hear Sherlock's footsteps behind him as they both ran back toward Soo Lin.

Red. Lots of red. A black lotus, folded carefully out of origami, set in a pale hand. Lots and lots of red. A hole in a temporal bone - not Sherlock's. Relief surged through John, and he hated himself for it. He ran his hand over his face, trying to scrub off blood that wasn't there.

* * *

The cab ride to New Scotland Yard was quiet. Sherlock had silently picked up the papers she'd brought for Soo Lin and walked out of the room. Neither of them had called 999, knowing they were just going straight to the police anyway.

Quiet. Soo Lin's head crushed by a bullet. Guilt. Relief. John had thought this was over with the war - these spiraling feelings of guilt and pride alternating.

Apparently not.

Good thing John was a soldier to the core, then. He had been used to this. He could be used to this again.

"You were right," he said abruptly, counting on Sherlock's genius to catch up. "Voluntary bodyguard. Yours. Not Soo Lin's." He took a moment when Sherlock didn't reply to clench his fists on his knees and breathe in deep. "I won't apologise, because I'd do it again."

"I don't need saving, John," Sherlock said curtly, and John looked over and could see the tension in her shoulders, the clench in her jaw.

"No. You don't," he said, honestly, carefully. "You take care of yourself, and you're a bloody genius. But I'm not, Sherlock. And I didn't buy an illegal pistol for a war I'd left behind. Between the two of us, one needs saving, and it's not you, but next time and the time after that and the time after that, I'm going to chase you."

He took another deep breath and stared out the window, not looking at Sherlock, trying not to notice how still his left hand had become.

"Then I won't say thank you. It's completely illogical of you, John." Sherlock's voice was calm. Clinical. John grinned.

"You're the logical one. I'm just the brawns." He turned his cheeky smile to meet her eyes, and she snorted and looked back out her window.


	44. Superior

**Superior**

Thank you all so very, very much for the lovely reviews! I may, or may not have, at some point in the week, got teary-eyed. (I did, it was Sunday, and it was more flat-out crying, but you know.)

The little notebook I was writing this story in (I write it long-hand first, I know, old-fashioned) has utterly fallen apart! I count that as a sign of my devotion to this project, and I would not be enjoying it nearly as much if it were not for all the encouragement I receive! So once again, thank you so much. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Something John had always hated in the army was _superiors_. Not the people who really were superior to him - he'd take an order from an expert any day, without a fuss. The annoying ones were the men with plenty of pomp in their titles, but hadn't earned it. He liked to fancy he'd earned the title _Captain_ the night he'd managed to (barely) hold together a unit after three of their vehicles had been IED'd. But others hadn't had such experiences on the field - or, indeed, any experience on the field. He could remember three distinct times he'd told three different men to Shut. Up. Because he had lives to save. Two of those men went on to serve in Parliament.

Looking at little, baby-faced Detective Inspector Dimmock, that frustration was coming back.

"Look, I just sent a group over to the museum," Dimmock said, hanging up the phone. "Please tell me I'll have something to show for it, besides a massive bill for overtime."

"You'll have another body to add to your collection. Does that suit?" Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow. Dimmock groaned and looked at her like she was hiding a chainsaw somewhere on her person.

"_Not us_," John said, his anger coming out in clipped consonants. "I daresay some CCTV footage from the museum will be coming any minute to prove it." John shot a glance at the nearest security camera. It, to his short-lived amusement, _nodded_ at him. He turned back to Dimmock. "It's the same fellow as the other two murders."

Dimmock looked at him blankly. Sherlock groaned. "They're all connected, you imbecile."

It was the wrong thing to say. Dimmock crossed his arms and scowled up at them. "Prove it."

Sherlock ran a hand through her hair. "You have a smuggling ring operating right underneath your nose!"

"Isabelle and Gary were runners," John supplied. "The girl at the museum is a former one."

"They've had something pinched. So they're killing the runners in an attempt to flush out whoever has it and get it back," Sherlock finished, tapping her toe in impatience, waiting for Dimmock to catch up.

"What are they missing?" Dimmock asked. John groaned inwardly.

"We don't know," he said, and watched Dimmock's eyes light up.

"So you don't kno-"

"The morgue," Sherlock interrupted, "Two minutes with the bodies. I'll prove the ring exists."

Dimmock narrowed his eyes, but Sherlock was already pulling out her phone and dialing Molly.

"Molly, dear, sorry, know it's late, but I was hoping you could help me prove my worth to an idiot at Scotland Yard. No, no, this one isn't Lestrade, Lestrade is at least marginally competent. When can we come down?"

* * *

At the morgue, John excused himself to get coffee for himself and a very sleepy Molly, if for no other reason than he needed to get space between his fists and Dimmock's face. When he came back, Molly was zipping up the second body bag and accepted the coffee gratefully. "Tattoos on the feet!" she said to him, grinning shyly. "Didn't even think about it, really." She shot a keen glance at him. "How are you holding up? I mean, it's just, it seems you've gotten wrapped up into more than one case, now."

John took a sip of his coffee before answering. "Well, besides what she did to my fridge - and the fact that she's managed to turn _my_ sofa into _her_ sofa - I think I'm doing fairly well."

"What did she do to your fridge?"

He grinned at her. "Are you missing any heads around here, Molly?"

Her eyes widened, and her hand flew up to her lips. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I won't let her take them home anymore if she's going to - I didn't think-"

John chuckled and put a calming hand on her arm. "It's fine, Molly. I know what it's like to try to say no to her. And I'd rather she take them legally. I don't need any more fake drugs busts."

If anything, Molly's eyes widened further. "Drugs busts?" she squeaked. John shrugged.

"Lestrade wanted some evidence. No real drugs involved."

Molly's shoulders relaxed. "Oh. Oh, good. After she'd finally gotten clean - I didn't want-"

"Time to go home, John," called Sherlock's imperious voice. Both John and Molly looked up as Sherlock walked over, grinning.

"I take it you got your way after all?" John said, raising an eyebrow. "Cheers." He held up his coffee in a mock toast.

"Home, John," was all Sherlock said in response, and John rolled his eyes.

"Yes, yes. I've still got to clean out my fridge. Have a good night, Molly, thanks for the chat," he said, smiling at the sweet girl before walking away, ignoring Sherlock's look of horror.

* * *

When John got home, his first thought was that he needed to go back in time and choose Soo Lin, because his flatmate was crazy.

"Sherlock, hiring people to block the way to my kitchen with boxes only puts off the inevitable," he said, leaning on the door-frame to give himself a better view of the crew (from NSY, he presumed) that was just finishing filling his sitting room with crates of books.

"While I have caught on to the utmost priority your clean fridge holds for you, John, this is a separate endeavour. Soo Lin did not, in fact, tell us which book was used for the cypher. It had to be one both Gary and Isabelle owned-"

"So you had New Scotland Yard bring all their books here," John said tiredly. "This is enough to fill a library, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed. "A small one, if that." She tossed her coat onto a pile of crates and whirled to open a book. "Start looking, John."

John heaved himself off the door-frame and picked up a book, turning it over in his hands. "If I find two of the same, what am I looking for?"

"The first two numbers in the bank - a fifteen and a one, John. Fifteenth page, first word. Should be some sort of threat."

"Right." John looked around at the boxes of books again. "Right." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm going to need more caffeine."


	45. Relationship Advice from Sherlock Holmes

**Relationship Advice From Sherlock Holmes**

The next chapter is *dun dun dun* _the date_. I'm having way too much fun writing it. Gaaah. But in the meantime you get a bit of a short chapter (the next one is super long so it totally evens out I promise) during which John questions his sanity.

Also this fic is getting ridiculously long. I'm thinking once _The Blind Banker_ is complete, I may "finish" this off and continue as a sequel, especially as I'm considering sticking my own case in there. Thoughts?

As always I am in complete adoration of my readers. Thank you so much for supporting this work.

Without further ado...

* * *

All John wanted to do was sleep. Really. And he'd start to doze off, sitting in his chair with a list of books they'd checked, and it was _blissful_ - a brilliant moment of darkness - and then Sherlock would slam two books down next to him and he'd be expected to put them on the list.

But all he really wanted was sleep.

Sleep was nice-

Really nice-

BAM. Two more books.

Right. List. Sherlock. Sleep.

Afghanistan. Sand. Blood and dust and -

_**BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP**_

John's hand slammed onto his phone to stop the alarm, and in that moment he hated _everything_.

But he had to go to work, so he got up and picked his way through stacks of books to get to his room to get clothes. He took them into the restroom, hoping his shower would wake him up.

Sherlock didn't say a word as he left the room - just kept going through books. He wondered how she managed the whole no-sleep thing, then figured she'd probably snuck in a nap while he'd dozed off sometime during the night.

When he came out of the restroom, dressed, rubbing his head with a damp towel, he decided caffeinated tea was his first priority.

The kettle was already hot. He stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway.

"Ta for the hot water," he said. Sherlock gave no reply, so he made his tea in silence, then grabbed his keys, put on his jacket, and paused by the door. "No burning down the flat while I'm at work, Sherlock. We haven't got a new fire extinguisher yet."

Sherlock hummed in response. John rolled his eyes and shut the door.

* * *

John woke to a knock on the door. He jumped, expecting it to be Sherlock giving him more books, before realizing where he was. _Oh shit_.

"How you doing?" Simon asked, grinning down at him. John sighed.

"Damn. I'm so sorry, Simon."

"Long night?"

"Sort of. How long was I out? What happened to my patients?"

"Two hours, and I may have taken one or two," Simon replied. John raised an eyebrow, and Simon conceded, "Dozen. One or two dozen."

John groaned. "Damnit! I owe you."

His new boss shook his head. "Hey, you came today on a voluntary basis. You getting through ten patients means I didn't have to sit through ten patients."

"All the same," John protested, and Simon grinned.

"Tell you what - if you really want to owe me, I'm not on this evening. Pay me back then. Without anyone asking me for antibiotics when it's a viral infection."

John blinked. Twice. Then a grin spread across his face. "Deal," he said, standing and holding out a hand, and Simon shook it, keeping a straight face. "Six, then?"

"Sounds good," Simon agreed, and then added, "Now that you're well-rested, I'll call in your next patient."

* * *

John came home tired but satisfied, humming as he unlocked the door.

"I said can you pass me a pen," came Sherlock's voice from his sofa. He frowned as he set down his jacket.

"I was at work, Sherlock," he said, then sighed, realizing she probably hadn't really acknowledged he'd left. He tossed her a pen and went into the kitchen, intending to get Sherlock to eat. He came out a couple minutes later with two mugs of tea and a packet of digestives, gripping the plastic edging of the package with his teeth since his hands were full.

He set down one of the mugs of tea next to Sherlock and took the digestives out of his mouth. "Here. Eat," he said shortly, tossing the digestives onto her stomach.

"I need to get out. We're going out tonight," she said, ignoring the food entirely.

"Actually," John grinned, "I've got a date."

"What?" Sherlock tossed two books from her lap onto the coffee table. John realized she'd been going through books by herself all day - there were three teetering piles on the table.

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun," he told her, moving the books off of his now-overheating laptop and setting them on the floor.

Sherlock frowned. "That's what I was suggesting."

"No. No it wasn't," John informed her, then pursed his lips. "At least, I hope not."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "How's your boss?"

John grinned at her over his tea. "He's doing great, thanks."

"How does he enjoy the circus?" Sherlock shot back, getting up in one smooth movement. The package of digestives fell on the floor, and John sighed, getting up and grabbing it, only to have a flyer thrown in his lap the moment he sat back down.

"Take him to this. Ought to be interesting enough. In London one night only, it'd be a shame to miss it."

John looked up in confusion - one moment Sherlock wasn't pleased with his evening plans, the next she was... suggesting them? He picked up the flyer, balancing the biscuits on his lap and his tea in his other hand. A Chinese circus. Not bad, more interesting than the movie he'd thought of going to - but then, he realized, should he really be taking _relationship advice_ from _Sherlock Holmes_?


	46. Third Wheel

**Third Wheel**

To be honest, Simon is really fun to write. I felt that Sarah in canon was pretty awesome - I mean, after that first date John still has a job and spends the night on her couch! That says a lot about strength and character. So I felt it was only fair to try and do the character justice.

I got a job this week! Thank you so much for the well-wishes after I lost my last one. I'm really pumped about life right now, a lot of good stuff is going on, which is awesome.

Enjoy the read!

* * *

John got the tickets, sighing inwardly in defeat. After Sherlock's suggestion, his cinema-and-dinner plan had seemed so - well, dull, to use Sherlock's vocabulary. The real blow to his pride was when his card was rejected and he found himself using Sherlock's card, which meant that Mycroft undoubtedly now knew that John was poor. And that John apparently did take dating advice from Sherlock Holmes.

John spent the last free hours of the afternoon trying to decide which of his jumpers wasn't too worn out for a date.

* * *

Simon looked way too good in green, and suddenly John's best blue jumper seemed ratty and ill-fitting. Shifting his weight, John looked up to see that Simon was smiling bemusedly at him, and he realized he'd just stood and stared after Simon had opened the door. _Embarrassing_.

"Yes, right, sorry!" he said, quickly, too quickly, dammit, get a hold of yourself, John, you invaded Afghanistan. "It's just, well," he shrugged, "You look... good."

Simon looked down, his amused smile turning into a grin as he surveyed himself. "Do I?"

John couldn't stop himself from grinning back when Simon met his eyes, and no one would ever be able to say John Watson was stingy with his compliments. "You're devastatingly good-looking in green," he admitted, and Simon chuckled, giving John a once-over.

"Blue brings out your eyes, Dr. Watson," he said, eyes twinkling over the "Dr." bit as if it were a private joke.

"Shall we, Dr. Sawyer?" John asked, and gestured at the cab. "After you."

"Why, thank you," Simon fluttered dramatically, and they both struggled until John had gotten in on the other side before making eye contact and bursting out laughing.

"So," John asked in between chuckles, "Exactly how nervous were you?"

Simon's eyes twinkled with mirth as he replied, "Half an ice-cream carton and a packet of crisps. You?"

"The stomach butterflies eluded me, but half my wardrobe's on the floor of my room from trying to decide what to wear," John admitted.

Simon rolled his eyes in sympathy. "For two middle-aged doctors, we sure cope like youths."

John's smile grew wider at the thought. "We're worse than teenage girls, I think - they seem to know what they're doing, at least."

Simon sighed. "Women _always_ know what they're doing, at all times, John. It's a law of the universe, or something."

"The eleventh commandment," John agreed, thinking of his flatmate.

"So where are we going?" Simon asked as the cab turned. John handed him the flier he'd brought along, blushing as he hoped it wasn't too ridiculous.

"I, um, figured we could give this a try. Can't be worse than my original plan."

"Which was...?"

"The cinema and nosh."

Simon chuckled. "Not bad, but we can leave the eating for later, I'm still full."

John grinned. "How are the crisps treating you?"

Simon groaned. "Horribly. I'm a doctor, I should know better."

* * *

Simon entered the little theatre with a grin. "It's been ages since I went to a circus," he admitted happily.

John looked around, taking in the atmosphere around them. "Not much by way of clowns or cotton candy at this one, I'm afraid."

Simon just rolled his eyes. "It's a Chinese circus. I bet they'll serve us tea at the end or something."

John shook his head with a smile. "I'd rather have a pint, thanks." Chinese tea reminded him of dead hands in a museum, now.

Simon winked at him. "You're treating." John found himself giggling before he could help himself, stepping up to the ticket booth.

"Ah, two, under Holmes, please," he stated clearly.

The ticket man looked at his computer, then back at John, confused. "We have three under that name, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah, no, I only reserved two," John said, frowning.

"And then I called back and added one for myself," said a familiar voice behind him, and John clenched his fists. He controlled himself until they'd been given their tickets and bustled out of the line, then rounded on his flatmate.

"Sherlock," he hissed, "What are you doing here?"

Simon looked between the two of them and said quickly, "I'm just going to, ah, go get some water real quick, I'll be back."

Sherlock just nodded as Simon walked off. John clenched and unclenched his fists.

"One night only, John. A travelling Chinese circus? In London? And their major billing - _The Amazing Chinese Bird-Spider_? I wouldn't miss it. They'd need a good reason to get in the country, you know."

John shifted his weight. "So you're crashing my date."

"Problem?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Sherlock, it's a problem! I can't have you crawling all over the place while I'm -"

"While you're what, John?" Sherlock said frostily.

"_While I'm trying to get off with Simon!_" John finally hissed, none too quietly, between his teeth.

"Amen to that."

John whirled to see Simon standing there, hands in his pockets, grinning. "That's good to hear," he said, "I figured maybe you'd invited your friend as a subtle way to put me off."

John flushed from head to toe. "No, I - this is my flatmate, and I did _not_ invite her alone, and you - you weren't supposed to hear that."

Simon just continued to grin as Sherlock rolled her eyes and thrust out a hand. "Sherlock Holmes," she said by way of explanation and greeting.

"Simon Sawyer," Simon replied. "Good to meet you."

John felt, for a brief moment, like the new boy at school - awkward, with no idea what was going on. Seeing as it had been a rather long time since he'd last been to school, the feeling wasn't at all pleasant.

"Right, then." He shifted his weight again and cleared his throat. "Ah, we should probably go in."

Simon turned back to him. "Of course," he nodded and took John's arm with a slightly possessive grin at Sherlock, guiding them both into the arena as Sherlock trailed behind.


	47. Target

**Target**

Alright, I have to apologise. A, this chapter is late by a day, and B, this chapter is short. I'm in the middle of moving flats and it's all a bit chaotic. I beg forgiveness.

Also the next chapter will probably be super long because it has fighting and things. Awesome. So I'll do my best to make it up to you, promise.

The circus began to long after they left the arena. John looked around awkwardly - the small audience stood around a single ring in the center of the dusty floor. Quite a few seemed to be college students or other "fine arts" types.

"Sherlock, the tickets said 'circus'," he hissed over his shoulder at her. "This - this is _art_."

Sherlock just rolled her eyes. "It'll be fine, John. Your date's enjoying himself."

Simon chuckled. "It's true," he said, and John shrugged, hoping it conveyed how out of his depth he felt here, at an artsy function as the old army doctor.

The lights dimmed. People murmured and shifted where they stood. Drums started to rumble in a corner, a light flicking on to illuminate the drummers, who wore some sort of traditional Chinese robes John didn't recognise.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a heavily-accented woman's voice called out, "Welcome. We present for you today, for your viewing pleasure, a death-defying act."

A spotlight lit up to illuminate the woman speaking, and she pulled a sheet off a large object next to her. A couple a few feet away from John gasped melodramatically as it was unveiled. Simon leaned closer to John.

"Personal sound effects to add to the atmosphere."

John giggled as he watched the woman drop a feather from her hat into a bowl on the contraption next to her. John recognised the machine as an elaborate crossbow just as it twanged and a large spike of wood buried itself in a target across the ring. John raised his eyebrows. He hadn't expected it to have that kind of force behind it. _Impressive_.

Two men entered the ring, dragging a a struggling, masked man between them. John tensed, thinking _trouble_, but looked closer, realising the man's struggles were fake, despite being unable to see his face.

"Ancient Chinese escapology act," Sherlock whispered over john's shoulder as the man was bound to the target with several chains pulled into an interlaced knot of locks over his chest. "The crossbow is on the delicate string, and the warrior is chained to the target. The sand bag holding the weight is split-" with a small dagger, the woman speared a sandbag holding up a heavy-looking lump of metal via a pulley as Sherlock continued to speak, "-and the warrior has until the weight hits the trigger to escape. Or else." Sherlock almost sounded amused.

The masked warrior was straining against his chains now. Even though John knew it was all for entertainment, he could feel the tension rise as the man strained to get his hands loose. One arm was worked free, then the other. Simon clutched for John's hand, and John didn't begrudge him the comfort of it! because he was suddenly worried that this act was very seriously mistimed! because the man couldn't seem to get his torso free and out of the range of the deadly bolt and the weight was just a hair's breadth away from the trigger.

At the last second, the warrior wrenched the last chain over his left shoulder and slid down out of the remaining bonds, his head ducking a bare centimeter away from the shuddering wooden bolt that sunk into the plank. Simon took a deep, sudden breath, as if he'd been holding it for a while, and John found himself chuckling aloud.

"My god," he breathed, clapping against his leg, as Simon was still holding his other hand tightly. It was actually starting to hurt.

John knew Sherlock called 'danger' and he came running, but at least he wasn't the worst sort of adrenaline junkie. At least he didn't tie himself to targets that were about to get shot at. He turned slightly, wishing he could see he look on Sherlock's face.

"Did you see tha-" he stopped, mid-sentence. Sherlock was gone.


End file.
